Moulin de la Galette
by silvanelf
Summary: Josef owns the original Renoir masterpiece, "Moulin de la Galette," but what is the history behind the painting? How did Josef acquire it? A love story to transcend a century...Mick is here, as well as historical Josef. Josef/OC.
1. Moulin de la Galette

**Alas, I don't own Moonlight.**

**Special thanks to Ancholia, and to Josef's Rose!** To **Ancholia** for inspiring me with the idea for this story, and to **Josef's Rose** for the idea that Josef himself is actually in the painting.

**A/N:** To those of you familiar with my work, you know that I write that Josef owns the painting _Moulin de la Galette_ painted by the French artist Pierre-Auguste Renoir in 1876, and that it is destroyed regularly in my stories, much to my evil joy and amusement.

Here is a link to the painting (replace the [dot]'s with periods): http://blogs[dot]princeton[dot]edu/wri152-3/s06/mgawrys/images/renoir[dot]moulin-galette[dot]jpg

It is one of my favorite paintings…and a suggestion from **Ancholia** inspired me to write this one-shot showing how Josef acquired it. I have mentioned in _The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship_ that Josef knew the artist personally. **; ) **While this story compliments my other longer works, it is unnecessary to read any of my other stories in order to understand this.

**Beta:** The lovely and kind **Anaman.** I can't thank you enough for all of your help with the French. Love ya! **: )**

**Dedication:** I would like to dedicate this fic to my friends and fellow art lovers **Ancholia **and** Anaman. **Thank you both so much for the kind and thoughtful reviews and comments you leave me again and again. I appreciate all your support and encouragement, and I love our discussions on art, literature and poetry. This one-shot is for both of you. I hope you like it. *hugs* **: ) **

Please forgive any typos…

Enjoy!

_Moulin de la Galette_

_~Los Angeles~1963~_

Dim, frosted lamps hanging on the walls lit the small lounge, their copper-colored stems welded to the dark wood paneling in the shape of climbing vines.

A small bar was to the left, a few stools sat empty in front of it. The patrons of the lounge were seated at the small, round tables scattered throughout the cozy space in front of the stage. Candlelight flickered from every table, casting shadows on the clean, white tablecloths.

Low voices and conversations murmured, offering a quiet background of white noise to the atmosphere. Every now and then a voice would rise with laughter before quieting again, or a chair would scrape backwards across the hardwood floor as a gentleman rose for another drink from the bar.

Sitting slouched across from him, Mick yawned. "This is so boring, Josef."

Josef sipped at his scotch on rocks. "Then you're in for a long night. The auction hasn't even started yet."

Mick groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Remind me again, why did I agree to accompany you here?" He fidgeted in his seat, and pulled at the tie around his neck.

Josef grinned, "Because you owe me…or have you already forgotten Coraline's pictur—"

Mick cut him off, the color draining from his face. "Okay, okay."

Josef had recently come to Mick's aid in destroying photos of his friend and his wife inflagranté. Coraline had placed a hidden camera in their bedroom before enticing Mick to sleep with her. She thought the pictures were all in good fun…Mick had been mortified, and had sought Josef's help to burn them.

Josef chuckled, "Why, Mick, I do believe you're blushing. If you live long enough, one day you won't be so modest."

Mick was indeed a bright shade of red. He hid his embarrassment by gulping down his scotch, and then rising from the table, said, "I'll be back…unfortunately." He weaved in and out among the tables towards the bar.

Josef smothered a grin and watched him go, Mick's brown sports coat fluttering slightly. His friend's misery alone made the night worth it, even if he couldn't find any new pieces for his collection. It was a black tie auction, held in one of the nicer, more up-scale lounges in Los Angeles. Josef was a regular patron, enjoying the club's smooth scotch, and tasty freshies. About half the audience here tonight were vampires.

Josef was dressed in forest green, with black slacks, and a matched jacket. His gold pocket watch gleamed in the soft light, as he pulled it out and checked the time. 8:56pm. The auction would be starting soon.

Mick returned to the table, a full glass of whiskey in his hand. "I've a new strategy for surviving the evening," he announced as he sat down.

"Oh?" Josef quirked a brow.

"Get drunk," Mick stated, and tossed the entire glass back with a flick of his wrist.

Josef snorted. "Mick, you have no appreciation for the fine arts…if it were up to you, we'd be shooting pool right now, wouldn't we?"

"Yup." Mick rose from the table again, heading once more to the bar.

Josef called softly after him, "Bring me another scotch."

As Mick made his way back to their table with the drinks, the lamps along the perimeter dimmed, sending the room into semi-darkness. Mick sat down, sliding Josef his scotch, while the audience clapped politely as the proprietor walked across the stage. The younger vampire stifled another yawn.

The portly owner of the club raised his hands, bowing his head to the audience, "Thank-you. Thank-you ladies, gentlemen. If you would all please take your seats, the auction will now begin."

Those still standing, wandering the room, returned to their tables, as the audience quieted. Mick shot Josef an exasperated look, "And I thought this couldn't get any worse."

"Hush." Josef leaned forward in his seat, excited.

The proprietor clapped his hands. "Welcome to The Royale's annual Auction of Fine Art and Sculpture, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Leonard Wood, and I am the owner of this establishment. I hope you have had a pleasant evening so far."

"No," Mick murmured under his breath.

Josef glared at him, "Behave," he whispered.

Mick grumbled to himself and settled back in his chair.

Leonard Wood was still speaking, "The Royale has managed to gather quite an impressive collection for you to bid on tonight. All proceeds from the auction, as you know, are donated to our fine city's public services, with 10 percent of all profits going to this club for hosting this annual charity event."

The audience clapped politely.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, if I may, I am pleased to introduce our auctioneer for the evening, Mr. Arthur McCoy."

The audience applauded again, as Wood left the podium, and a tall, slender man entered the stage from the right.

He stepped up to the microphone. "Good evenin, folks," he drawled. "Well, I see no point talkin away at you up here. Let's begin, shall we? Our first item for bid is…"

And so the auction began. Piece after piece was shown to the audience…bids were shouted, money spent, and drinks consumed. Josef bid on a couple of items, won a few, lost a few. Mick yawned continuously and did a poor job of feigning interest.

Until suddenly he sat up straight in his chair, glancing with his first real excitement at the stage all night. A Picasso was being settled on the easel, as the auctioneer described the item.

"Now this one is a real classic, people. A genuine Pablo Picasso. Painted in 1905—a rare treasure from his Rose period. The painting is titled, "Lady With a Fan," and I do believe this lady wants to go home with one of you fine gentlemen tonight." The painting depicted a woman set against a green background in a blue dress. One hand was raised, as though in greeting, the other was at her side, holding a closed, black fan.

Mick turned to Josef, "I like that one."

Now it was Josef's turn to groan, and pinch the bridge of his nose discreetly. "Tell me you do not admire Picasso." Trust Mick to gum onto the one artist the elder vampire didn't really care for.

"Don't you?" Mick asked.

"Let's start the bidding at $500,000," Arthur said.

Mick's number shot into the air instantly. The auctioneer called out, "We have $500,000 ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear $550?"

Mick turned to Josef as the auction continued. "Um…Do I have five hundred thousand dollars, Josef?"

"No."

Mick choked on his whiskey.

"I knew it!" Josef said. "You don't read your quarterly reports. If you did, you'd know I was lying. Of course you have five hundred thousand. Much more, in fact."

"That wasn't funny, Josef."

"I know, it was hilarious. I wish I had camera, so I could've taken a picture of your face."

The auctioneer called in the background, "Do I hear $700? $700,000 thousand, ladies and gents…?"

Mick asked, "How much am I worth, Josef?"

Josef took out a small slip of paper, and ball point pen, wrote the figure down, folded the paper in half and slid it across the table to Mick.

Mick opened it, eyes widening at the number of zeros. "You're joking!" His voice rose, and some people sitting around them glanced in their direction, "I can't have that much money!"

"Lower your voice. I'm not, and you do. What did you expect when you asked me to handle your portfolio?"

A few women who had overheard the conversation were now eyeballing Mick appreciatively. One caught the young vampire's eye, and gave him a slow, sultry smile. Mick gave a little wave to her.

"$900,000 thousand to the gentleman in the brown sports coat," the auctioneer called.

Mick choked on his whiskey again.

"Truly folks, your generosity is overwhelming. Do I hear $925 for this masterpiece? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity…don't let this fine work slip away…$925? Anyone? $900,000 going once…going twice…and sold to number 2931 for the generous sum of $900,000 thousand dollars. Thank you, sir."

Mick stared at Josef flabbergasted, "I just spent nearly a million bucks on oil, wood, and canvas."

"Welcome to the art world, my friend. You've made me proud." Josef beamed at him.

"I've made me sick, I think." Mick made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

"Please don't vomit." Josef scooted a bit away from the table. Mick's face looked as green as the background of the Picasso he had just won. Josef reassured him, "That's just pocket change for you. Besides, it's for a good cause…your money will help hospitals, police, firemen. Think of all the lives you just saved."

Mick's face brightened. "Yeah…" He smiled, more relaxed. "Okay, this is fun."

"I told you so." Josef was pleased. He liked attending these sorts of affairs with a companion. Maybe if Mick enjoyed the rest of the evening he would come with Josef to another auction in the future.

The hours passed, as the night grew long. Mick bid on a few more pieces…he won a Van Gogh, and another Picasso.

Finally, they neared the end of the auction. McCoy spoke into the microphone, "Only three items left to bid for, folks. But they are all well worth the wait. The first of the final three comes from the beginning of the Impressionist period."

Josef sat up straighter. He was particularly fond of Impressionist paintings, and there had been precious few to bid on tonight.

Arthur McCoy continued, "This is a famous piece madams, monsieurs. From the French painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir, a true master of art, "Moulin de la Galette" painted 1876." The painting was carried out and placed on the stand on stage.

Josef gazed into the scene of people dancing, sitting, laughing and talking amidst the trees and hanging lanterns. A memory of a different time and place swirled to the forefront of his mind…

* * *

~_France~The Butte Montmartre~1875~_

"Really, William, if you admire the girl so much, you should ask her to dance with you."

Josef smiled, "Perhaps." He was seated with his friend at one of the more popular dance gardens. The night was still young, the silver crescent moon and stars shining down on the dancing, carousing crowds, as the people laughed and twirled the evening away.

Josef had one eye on his friend, and the other on a lovely young lady seated on a bench under one of the trees, sipping at her punch. Her brunette curls were pulled stylishly off from her face, black, embroidered gloves covered her hands. She wore a simple, deep blue dress, with black trim. Ebony lace spilled from her dress's cuffs and collar. Peeking barely out from underneath the hem of her long skirt were the pointed dark tips of her shoes.

Josef turned his full attention back to his companion, "What do you think, Pierre? Would you paint her?"

Renoir examined the lady in question more closely. "Eh…she is too skinny. Put some meat on her bones and she would make a well enough model."

Josef turned his gaze back to the woman.

Pierre blew smoke from his cigarette in Josef's face, "Ah, l'amour. I think you are in love with her, William."

Josef snorted, "Hardly." But he didn't move his eyes from the girl.

"Oui, I think you are. You have that gleam in your eyes."

Josef turned away from the vision of feminine beauty. "Do I?" he said absentmindedly.

"Oh, very much so, my friend. I think she would not mind if you si tu lui demandes de danser avec toi." ~_Asked her to dance with you._~

"It wouldn't be proper. She is unattended. There is no one to introduce us. Think of the scandal."

"What is France, if not scandalous, mon ami? Ask her."

Still, Josef hesitated. Pierre might be able to brush off scandal, but Josef conducted business in France. He could not afford to lose a potential client because his name had been splashed in the papers. He sipped at his wine, watching the young woman, thinking.

Renoir suddenly straightened, and pointed, "There, there. You see? The mademoiselle _is_ attended."

A young man, appearing no older than 28 had joined the girl on the bench, with his own glass of punch. His tie was a bit loosened, and his hair a bit disheveled. He was talking animatedly to the young lady, as she gazed at him with affection.

"It's no use, Pierre. Surely that is her beau." Josef started to turn away with a sigh.

Pierre jabbed his cigarette at him, "Have you not heard the expression, _Carpe Diem?_ Don't assume, William. I kick you away from my table. Go, go. Introduce yourself." The artist snatched the glass of wine from the vampire's hand, and downed it. "You have nothing to drink, mon ami. Now, you must dance."

Josef laughed. "Oh, all right then. Have it your way." He rose from their table.

"At last you are learning wisdom, my friend. Bien. I will watch you with great amusement from here." The recently famed painter leaned back in his wooden seat and smoked away at his cigarette.

Josef weaved his way through the crowds, approaching the young couple on the bench. They were engrossed in their conversation, conversing fluently in rapid French. With his enhanced senses, Josef could hear what they were saying. Apparently, the young gentleman was revering the lady with an anecdote.

"—Le professeur s'est retourné et Philippe a sifflé encore une fois. Le vieux vautour ne pouvait pas le supporter. Il a donné un blâme à la entière." ~_The professer turned around again, and Philippe would whistle once more. The old vulture couldn't stand it. He gave the whole class demerits._~

The girl answered him, her voice a clear and ringing bell, as she playfully swatted at the gentleman, who easily dodged her hands. "Oh, Nicolas! Quelle mauvaise blague de Philippe. Vraiment, vous devez m'autoriser de vous rendre visite à Paris." ~_Oh, Nicolas! How awful of Philippe. Really, you must allow me to visit you in Paris._~

The young gentleman grinned, "Peut-être un jour, ma chère soeur. Mais je ne crois pas que vous aimeriez l'université. C'est trop vieux jeu pour quelqu'un comme vous." ~_Maybe one day, sister. But I do not think you would like the university. It is too stuffy for one such as yourself._~

Josef's attention and hopes increased as the word _soeur_ drifted on the light breeze to his ears. _So he is not her beau, he is her brother…_

He reached the two on the bench. Josef caught a glimpse of the girl's captivating green eyes before the brother realized Josef's presence, and rose, positioning himself protectively in front of his sister. "Bonsoir, Monsieur." ~_Good evening, sir._~

"Bonsoir," Josef replied politely. He spoke fluent French, "Comme je passais, je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher d'entendre par hasard une partie de votre conversation." ~_As I was passing by, I couldn't help but overhear part of your conversation._~ Josef paused for a moment, and then offered his hand, "Excusez-moi, mon nom est Guillaume, Guillaume Schweitzer." ~_Excuse me. My name is William, William Schweitzer__.~_

After a slight hesitation, and a suspicious glance over, the brown-haired gentleman relaxed somewhat, and shook Josef's hand, "Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Guillaume. Je suis Nicolas Chazal et voici ma soeur Marianne." ~_Pleased to make your acquaintance, William. I'm Nicolas Chazal, and this is my sister, Marianne._~

Nicolas had a strong grip, and Josef was impressed. "Vous ai-je bien entendus? Etudiez-vous à l'université à Paris? Qu'étudiez-vous, si je puis vous demander?" ~_Did I overhear you correctly? You attend University in Paris? What do you study, if I may ask?~_

Nicolas seemed more than willing to converse. "Oui. J'étudie la musique et le Latin dans la capitale." ~_Yes. I study music and Latin in the capital._~

"Qu'est-ce qui vous amène à Montmartre?" ~_What brings you to Montmartre?_~

Nicolas smiled, and indicated his sister with a nod of his head. "Je rends visite à ma famille pour les vacances d'été" ~_I am visiting my family for the summer holidays._

Josef nodded. "Ah. Très bien. Votre soeur est très belle. Puis-je avoir votre permission de lui demander de danser avec moi?" ~_Ah, very good. Your sister is very beautiful. May I have your permission to ask her if she would dance with me?_~

Nicolas gave him a longer, more thorough glance over, and then stepped aside from standing in front of his sister. "Bien entendu." ~_Of course._~

"Merci." ~_Thank-you._~Josef crossed the grass to where Marianne was seated with easy, smooth steps. She smiled shyly at him.

"Puis-je avoir cette dense, Mademoiselle?" ~_May I have this dance, young lady?_~

Her irises shone, warm and shy up at him, as she placed her delicately gloved hand in his outstretched fingertips, "J'en serais ravie, Monsieur." ~_I would be delighted, sir._~

Josef swept her out onto the night lawn, effortlessly flowing into the rhythm of the music, and the movement of the other dancers. Marianne stumbled a bit in his arms, "Je suis désolée. Je suis une mauvaise danseuse." ~_I am sorry. I am a clumsy dancer._~

Josef smiled at her, "Non. Vous avez trébuché seulement parce que vous essayez de mener. Détendez-vous et permettez-moi de vous guider. Suivez mes pas." ~_No. You only stumble, because you are trying to lead me. Relax, and allow me to guide you. Follow my steps._~

Marianne blushed shyly and did as instructed. Instantly, their dancing smoothed. Josef was pleased to find, that when not trying to lead, Marianne was a splendid dancer, light, if not perfectly graceful, on her feet. Her posture was good, her head held high and elegant, as she twirled and spun with him.

Josef asked her, curious, "Parlez-vous anglais?" ~_Do you speak any English?_~

She dipped her head briefly, "Oui, a little. Poor Nicolas doesn't know a word of English, I'm afraid. He has no patience for any language but Latin. My friends and I decided to learn English so we could speak freely in his presence. He is a bit over protective."

"He seems a smart fellow, and an attentive brother."

Marianne smiled, glancing fondly over her shoulder to where Nicolas was seated on the bench, sipping his punch, and watching them. "Yes, Nicolas dotes on me." She turned back to face him, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "Tell me, William, you did not just happen to wander by and overhear my brother's story, did you? I noticed you watching me earlier."

_Beautiful and intelligent…_Josef led her in time with the music, "I confess. My sole purpose was to have your brother introduce us. I don't really care that much for the University, or Paris."

Her green eyes laughed up at him, as her hand gripped his shoulder, "I thought so. Who is your friend you were sitting with? He seems familiar. I wish to thank him for encouraging you."

"That, my dear, is Pierre-Auguste Renoir."

Marianne gasped, "The artist?"

"The one and only." Josef winked at her.

"Oh, you must introduce me. I love his paintings. I saw his exhibit last year in London. His paintings are so captivating."

"That they are," Josef agreed. "I will promise to introduce you, but only if you promise to let me have another dance."

"You have an accord, Monsieur."

The vampire and the young lady laughed, as they enjoyed the dance and the crowds, and the evening together. Marianne's beautiful face positively shone in the moonlight, as Josef danced across the grass with her, under the hanging lanterns.

* * *

Pierre-Auguste Renoir leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk upon his face. He struck a match and lit another cigarette, as he watched William dancing with the young lady his friend had so admired.

Renoir considered his friend. William always moved with such smoothness and grace. Even now he glided across the lawn, his tall form and narrow features drawing many an envious gaze from the ladies who were without a partner. The young woman in his arms complimented him in every way. The couple danced, eyes only for each other, and Pierre could see William talking and laughing with her.

It was good to see William so. Though Pierre had never seen his friend in a blue mood, there was a melancholy air about Schweitzer that the famous artist couldn't quite figure out. And that was not the only strange thing about William.

For instance, when did the boy eat? Pierre tapped ashes from his cigarette onto the ground. _I have never seen that boy consume a single bite._ There was also the question of where William disappeared to during the day…Renoir rarely saw his friend in the sunlight.

William had a startling, and impressive knowledge of history. He claimed to have learned the subject from his tutors in Germany, but sometimes he seemed to forget himself and let slip a comment that Renoir knew no history text would contain. William seemed older than his years…his eyes conveyed a wise spirit in a young man's body.

And how could Renoir forget that strange afternoon, when William had dropped by his studio around midday? Pierre had been shocked at the appearance of his friend. William had been ashen, his eyes sickly and yellow. He had stumbled into the artist's studio, and Pierre had hurried to his friend's side, concerned to find him burning with fever.

But William had waved aside his concerns, saying he was only here to see one of Renoir's models. The painter was confused. His friend needed to see a doctor…he was obviously delirious. He said as much to Schweitzer.

"No, no doctors. I need to see Solveig. Please, Pierre."

"Very well, you crazy German bastard." Renoir rose from the sofa where he had settled his friend, expecting William to remain lying there. Instead, the boy struggled to his feet, and followed him.

"William, where is your sense? Go, lie down. I will bring Solveig to you."

"No, I need to see her in private," his friend gasped, swaying and clutching at Pierre's shoulder for support.

Unprepared as he was for his friend's sudden weight, Renoir stumbled forward, catching himself on a table, and accidentally slicing his palm open on a blade he used to sharpen his charcoal. His blood flowed across his hand as he cursed, "Ah! Fichtre!" ~_Damn!_~

He suddenly noticed that William had gone very still, fingers tightening almost painfully around his arm. Pierre saw his friend's eyes were fixated on the cut on his hand, and the blood dripping from it. For some reason, Renoir suddenly felt as though he was in danger, and the hairs rose along the back of his neck. William was staring at his hand with an almost _hungry_ expression, if Renoir didn't know any better. "Mon ami?"

His call seemed to rouse William from whatever trance he had entered. Schweitzer had blinked, swallowing thickly, and released the painter's arm. "Please…Solveig…hurry." He sank down into a nearby chair, resting his face in trembling hands.

Pierre hurried to the back rooms of his studio, where Solveig was lounging. He panted, confused and a little out of breath, _I must stop eating so many pastries…_ "My dear, William is here, he wishes to speak with you. He seems very ill, he—"

Renoir didn't even get to finish his sentence, as Solveig gasped and leaped to her feet, rushing past him, leaving his head spinning. "Mon Dieu! Young people!" He threw up his hands, and made to follow his model.

When he found her, she was with William, and to Renoir's great bewilderment, his friend seemed much, much improved. He noticed Solveig had a rag pressed against her wrist, and for a moment, he thought he saw something startling in William's smile. But he blinked, and it was only his friend's usual cheerful countenance grinning at him, albeit tiredly. Renoir scoffed at himself, _You are going crazy. William does not have fangs._

William rose, his usual grace restored, "I apologize for interrupting your work, Pierre."

"It is nothing, you are my friend. I think you must lie down here for a while."

Schweitzer waved a hand, "No, no. I'm fine now. It was just a touch of sun-sickness. I'm sensitive to the heat, you know. I'll return to my apartment and rest there."

Renoir nodded, "Bien. I will walk you home." He was curious to see where William lived in Montmartre. He hoped maybe he could wheedle some answers about the odd scene from his friend as they walked down the street together. William raised a hand frequently to block the sunlight from his face as Renoir pestered and questioned him, but it was no use. His friend only offered light, half-hearted teases and remained tight-lipped. It was with frustrated hopes that Renoir left him on the doorstep to his building.

William seemed to have put the incident behind him, but Pierre had never forgotten the strange scene, or his friend's bizarre behavior and appearance that sunny afternoon. He often wondered what Solveig had done for his friend that had helped William recover so quickly.

As he watched William dancing now with the beautiful young lady, he reflected how his friend always seemed to come alive at night, as though it was in the darkness where he reveled and reached his full potential.

Renoir thought to himself, _There is a mystery to you, mon ami. And one day I will discover it…but not tonight, I think. Tonight is for dancing._

The artist observed with a more critical eye the scene of the gardens…the couples dancing on the grass, the warm lanterns glowing, the crowds hanging backwards over chairs, straddling benches, shouting, calling, laughing, drinking. _Perhaps I will return sometime during the day and paint this…_He liked the idea. _Yes, that is what I will do._

He watched William dance. _Thank you for the inspiration, my friend._

* * *

The dancing was winding down. Marianne's cheeks were flushed with laughter and from the exercise. Josef led her to the side of the green lawn tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.

"You are a fine dancer," he complimented.

"You are too kind, Monsieur. I was awful. But you were not so bad," Marianne teased.

Josef found that he liked Marianne very much. She was well educated in art, and they had discovered they both shared a love for Impressionist works. Marianne thought it a bold and refreshing new movement, and Josef agreed. Her voice captivated his attention, her opinions and critiques were intelligent and insightful. She could carry a conversation with ease, and freely discussed art, music and literature with him as they had swayed in each other's arms.

Their evening was drawing to a close—Josef only wished he had asked Marianne to dance with him sooner. Her brother was signaling to her that it was time to leave.

Marianne seemed disappointed. She turned to Josef, "You never introduced me to Monsieur Renoir," she said, a little sadly.

Josef gently turned her chin up so that her eyes met his. "I apologize, Mademoiselle. I lost track of the time. Tomorrow, I will come for you and show you my friend's studio, and you will meet him then, yes?"

Marianne's emerald eyes sparkled at the prospect of meeting the famous painter, and at seeing Josef again. "If Nicolas agrees."

"I will wait for you at the Café Seine. At 3:00?"

"Yes. That would be magnifique, Monsieur."

Josef placed a soft kiss to the back of her hand, and then bowed, "Until then. I am pleased to have met you, Marianne."

"And I, you." Marianne blushed a little, and then turned away and hurried to her brother's side. He put an arm around her waist as they walked together from the gardens, Marianne chatting excitedly with her brother.

Josef remained standing where he was, watching Marianne's retreating figure. He sighed wistfully…_What am I doing? I can't be involved with a mortal…_

He heard a chuckle at his shoulder, "Ah yes, there is no denying it, William. You are smitten."

Josef smiled and turned to face Pierre-Auguste Renoir who had come up behind him, "If I am, it is your fault, you old matchmaker."

"I will take full credit. Tell me, when is the wedding?" Renoir teased his seemingly young friend.

Josef laughed. "Don't be so hasty. She wants me to introduce you to her."

"Bien. I will her steal her away from you, fatten her up, and use her as a model for my paintings."

Josef grinned, shaking his head. "Never, my friend." He stared after Marianne, watching as she turned around one last time and waved at him before her brother assisted her into a carriage. Josef raised his hand in return.

Renoir watched the exchange with interest. "You know, I will paint this scene, I think."

Josef was pleased to hear that. "You know how I admire your work."

"I will paint Moulin de la Galette for you then." Renoir smiled, and clapped Josef on the back, "Come, let us go find us some wine."

The two friends turned and plunged back into the swirling crowds…

* * *

_~Los Angeles~1963~_

"This is the planet Earth calling Josef…Hello…? Are you listening to me?" Mick waved his hand in front of Josef's face, snapping his friend from his reverie.

Arthur McCoy called, "And we have $850,000 from the gentleman in the brown sports coat."

Josef blinked and shook himself. "Sorry. What's the bid?"

"Well, I just bid eight hundred fifty thousand apparently, waking you up…Where did you go?"

Josef smiled, "The painting stirred a fond memory is all."

"Let me guess, you knew the artist."

"Yes, actually."

Mick choked on his whiskey for a third time that evening. "I was joking, Josef."

"I wasn't." Josef raised his number and shouted, "One million."

Mick swallowed his ice cube whole. Josef pounded him on the back, as an astonished murmur ran through the crowd.

McCoy recovered quickly, "We have a bid of one million dollars ladies, gents, on this beautiful Renoir masterpiece. Do I have someone willing to bid one million, one hundred thousand? No? One million, one hundred thousand folks…One million, going once…"

"One million, one hundred thousand." A voice called out from somewhere in the crowd.

"We have one-million one-hundred thousand, do we have—"

Josef called out again, "One million, two hundred." Mick gaped at him.

"My, my. This item is hot, folks. The bid is now at one _million_, two hundred _thousand_ dollars, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear one million three hundred?"

The same voice called out from the audience, "One million, three hundred."

Before Arthur McCoy could say anything, Josef shouted, "Two million."

Excited murmurs broke across the room, as people twisted in their seats to get a glimpse of Josef. Mick was mouthing at him, _Two million…_his eyes were wide as saucers. Josef was prepared to spend much more than that, in order to acquire the painting.

Arthur whistled into the microphone. "A handsome bid, sir. Do I have two million, one hundred thousand?"

Josef waited to see if his competitor would bid again, but there was only silence from the audience.

"Two million going once…Two million going twice…sold to number 2932 for two million dollars, the largest bid of the evening, so far. Los Angeles thanks you, sir."

Josef smiled. The Renoir was his. At last, he had found _Moulin de la Galette_ again.

* * *

Later that night he held the painting in his study. He would have to find it a spot in his mansion where he could admire it every day. There were a few places he thought where it would fit nicely. Either in his library, or perhaps out in the foyer…

Josef smiled down at the painting, his friend truly had possessed genius. Pierre had captured perfectly the scene of the dance garden. The painting echoed his memories—not anywhere striking a false note.

It had taken over a year for Renoir to finish his painting. During that time, Pierre had eventually discovered "William's" true nature. Josef smiled and chuckled softly to himself, recalling the stunned expression on Pierre's face, when the artist had realized that the majority of his models also acted as Josef's freshies. The elder vampire hadn't been surprised his friend had been able to match the puzzle pieces together. It had been Pierre's livelihood to observe the world around him, to see things, to notice.

And to capture with his brushes. Josef stared at the three dancing couples left of the center of the Impressionist masterpiece. Of the three pairs, only one held special significance to him.

A young lady—wearing a dark blue dress with black trim and ebony lace, her brown locks curling down around her neck, swaying in the arms of a light-haired, slender gentleman, whose mouth was very close to the girl's throat.…Marianne…

And William.

_Finis_

* * *

Well, I hope you readers of mine found this interesting. Reviews are welcome! **; ) **

**p.s.** I have decided to continue this...it will be a short story, around 5 chapters I think.


	2. Moulin de la Galette: part II

**Alas, I don't own Moonlight.**

**Beta:** The wonderful **Ancholia**. Thanks so much for your help. **moonshine,** I know I also told you that I would also like for you to beta for me…but Ancholia and I wanted to surprise you with this update for your birthday. I hope you don't mind that you didn't get to beta this chapter. Happy Birthday!! : )

**A/N:** I know I said before that this was supposed to be a one shot—but I have decided to turn this into a short story…around 5 chapters or so. Because of this continuation, one of the characters from the first part—Giselle—will become much more developed. In light of her new character, I feel the name Giselle no longer suits her, and so I have changed it to Solveig—which is Norwegian. ; )

**A/N2:** Renoir did paint nudes—there are enough in his collection that I believe the dialog with and concerning Renoir's models is realistic.

**A/N3:** I have happy news to share with everyone…Many of you know that last summer I was diagnosed with Wilson's Disease and unable to return to college because of my illness.

Well, I'm really excited to let you all know that on the 26th, I'm returning to school for Spring Term!!! **: D** I am so, so happy and I can't wait to go back. I'll be rooming with a close friend, and taking 12 credits.

The downside of this news is that I will no longer have as much free time to write, and so updates from me will slow down a little. I will do my best to get updates to you promptly, but my focus must be on school. I don't have any illusions about how difficult it's going to be to get back into the swing of college, and so I have to put class and homework first, fanfiction second. I hope you all understand. Don't worry, I will see _all _my stories through to the end. **; )**

Please ignore any typos…

Enjoy!

_Moulin de la Galette, part II_

~_Los Angeles_~_1963_~

The door to his office burst open with a loud crash. Mick and his client both jumped, greatly startled, his client flinging his arms up in surprise, his glass of blood flying from his hand. Mick watched in absolute horror as the glass tumbled end over end in slow motion towards his now precious Picasso, that he had hung on his office wall. "_No!_"

He lunged, trying to place himself in front of "Lady With a Fan" and shield her, but it was too late. The glass hit the painting and shattered, splattering blood all over the canvas. Mick clutched his hair, "Augh!"

Josef stormed into his office, his expression dark, and his body language livid. "_It's gone!!__" _he shouted. "_Stolen!_" He grabbed Mick's client by his tie, and roughly jerked him to his feet. "_Out!_" he snarled, spinning him towards the door.

Mick hastened to his client's side, steadying him, while guiding him to the door, "I'm so very sorry, Mr. Daniels. Please excuse my friend. It's the full moon, you know."

Daniels stared at him, "What does the full moon have to do with our kind?"

"Uh…well…nothing, I suppose. Indulge me. I apologize on my friend's behalf—he has obviously lost his marbles. I'll reschedule our appointment."

"Don't bother," his client said, glaring. He jabbed Mick's chest with his forefinger. "I have never been treated so rudely, in my entire undead life! I will be taking my business to a different private investigator." Mick watched as his potential case swept away down the hall.

He angrily slammed his office door shut, and spun to face Josef, "What the hell's the matter with you, huh?! You just cost me a good client. And you ruined my Picasso!" Mick hurried from his office into his kitchen, snatching up a hand towel, and quickly dampening it. He returned to his office and hovered in front of the priceless painting. Perhaps he could wipe the blood off it, without causing any more damage?

As he cleaned the canvas, Josef raging and storming behind him, he talked softly to the painting, "There, there, my lovely. I'm here."

He was aware of Josef's sudden silence, and glanced over his shoulder to see that the elder vampire had put his frustrations on 'pause' momentarily, to stare incredulously at his friend.

"Mick, you are aware that you're treating that painting like it's a pet, aren't you?" Josef made a gagging noise.

"So?" Mick said defensively. "You have your freshies for pets, and I have my painting."

"Mick, my freshies _are not_ my pets."

Mick gave Josef a pointed look that clearly said, _Uh-huh._

Josef consented, "Okay, so maybe they are. At least freshies are _alive_. Whereas _that_ atrocity is nothing more than some oil splattered across canvas, masquerading as good art. Really, Mick, Picasso?"

Mick didn't respond to him, but spoke to "Lady With a Fan" instead, "Don't you listen to the mean, old, nasty vampire, my beauty. Someone just got up on the wrong side of the icebox tonight."

Josef hit 'play' on his anger again, as Mick wiped the last of the blood from the masterpiece. He examined the painting with a sigh…most of the blood was gone, but it looked as though he would have to have a professional restore the Picasso to its former glory.

Mick was enjoying his recent discovery of his love for art. Since The Royale's charity auction a week ago, he had been researching great paintings, ranging from The Renaissance giants—Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and Raphael—all the way to more modern artists such as Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollack. He had purchased some art books and was held enthralled for hours, gazing at prints of famous works within the book's spines. Mick was thrilled to see his two Picassos and Van Gogh appearing in a couple of them.

He had called Josef, last Tuesday morning.

Josef had answered on the very last ring possible, before the telephone went to his message machine, "You better have a good reason for calling at 11:30am, Mick." His voice sounded groggy.

Mick spoke excitedly into the phone, "It's great, Josef. There's another auction! It's going to be held at—"

There was a click on the line as Josef hung up.

Mick had shrugged, and turned his attention back to the book on Cubism he had been reading. Josef would call him back later tonight.

Sure enough, at dusk, Mick's phone rang. He answered it, and immediately said excitedly, "It's great, Josef. There's going to be another auction!"

A strange voice on the line said, "Um…I'm sorry. I think I have the wrong number." The line went dead again.

Josef called him back at seven. This time, Mick waited until his friend said 'Hello,' before launching with enthusiasm once more into, "It's great, Josef. There's another auction!"

"You said that already this morning."

Mick read from the flyer he had picked up, which advertised the upcoming auction, "_Participants_ _will_ _be_ _able to bid on a wide variety of Impressionist works, including Monet, Van Gogh, Renoir, Munch, and other masters of the Impressionist period._ Can we go, Josef? Huh?"

"Christ, I've created a monster," Josef exclaimed.

"What's the big deal? I thought you liked Impressionist paintings? Come on, Josef…it'll be fun."

Josef's solemn voice reached Mick's ear through the telephone's tiny receiver, "Mick, be honest with me. Are you on drugs right now?"

"What?! No!"

"Then where the heck is this coming from?" Josef asked. He did an imitation of Mick's voice, "_This is so boring, Josef._"

Mick winced. He _had_ said that. "What can I say, Josef? I saw the light."

"More like, God struck you with lightening. Slow down, boyo. These paintings have been around for centuries. They're not going anywhere."

Mick sighed, "All right, all right. I'll try to ease up a bit. It's just, I've discovered this new passion for art in me, and it makes me happy." Truly, this was the reason for the young vampire's newfound love for canvases. When Mick gazed at the endless variety of scenes, losing himself in the colors and techniques—it made him feel human again. It took his mind off of the problems in his marriage, and his misery at being a vampire.

Josef was silent for a moment on the line and then said, "I know what you mean. Art is a wonderful way to escape, Mick. But just be careful you don't forget to live in reality."

"I know." Mick released a breath. "So do you want to go?"

"To what?"

"'To what,' he says," Mick muttered. He raised his voice, "To the auction! Where else, dummy?"

"There's no need for name-calling," Josef said, all snippety. "You never told me when or where the auction is…I'm a busy man. I've got things to do, places to go—"

"People to see." Mick finished for him. "Yeah, yeah, I get it." He glanced at the flyer, spotting the information his friend needed. "It's at Claremont College. This Saturday, at 7:30pm."

"Sounds perfect. It's a date. I'll bring you flowers if you wear a suit."

"Har, har. Not funny, Josef."

"I thought it was. See you Saturday." Josef hung up. Mick knew his friend would be getting ready to head into his work for the evening.

The auction wasn't until tomorrow. Josef was a whole day early. _And pissed, or my name isn't Mick St. John._

Josef was angrily pacing back and forth in his office, clenching and unclenching his fists, as he ranted a triad of German. Mick let him go on for a minute, trying to catch all the swear words Josef had taught him. At one point, he raised his brow, as the elder vampire's cursing took a more creative flow. _I don't think Picasso's mother would appreciate being referred to in that fashion… _It was time to find out what the heck was going on.

"Josef!" Mick shouted, cutting his friend off. "Calm down. What happened?"

Josef raged, "It's gone! _Stolen!_"

"You said that already, five minutes ago." Mick pinched the bridge of his nose, _This is going to be fun, I can tell._ "What's stolen, Josef?"

Josef's voice trembled with fury, "What's stolen…? What's…?" He made an incoherent noise. "_The painting_, Mick! That's what's stolen. It's missing!"

"Which painting? You have several." Mick pushed his friend onto the couch, and opened the liquor cabinet. He selected a glass, and a decanter of AB negative, pouring Josef a drink. As he replaced the blood decanter, his eyes fell upon a dusty bottle of scotch, tucked away in the back corner of the cabinet. He snuck a glance at Josef…his friend had buried his face in his hands, which were shaking with anger. _Yeah, he could use a stiff one, I'd say…_

Mick pulled out the bottle, blowing the dust from it, and poured a generous amount of scotch into Josef's glass. He paused, and then thought, _Oh, what the hey, why not?_ and heaped in some more. He swirled the contents of the glass, dropped in some ice cubes, and then moved away from his liquor cabinet.

He handed Josef his drink, and stepped to sit behind his desk with the bottle of scotch.

Josef gulped down about half of his drink in one go. "Oh, that's good," he rasped.

Mick took a swig from the bottle, feeling the fiery alcohol burn its way down his throat. Josef was right, it _was_ good. He eyed his friend. "Josef? You still haven't answered my question. Which painting of yours was stolen?"

The ice in Josef's glass gave off chinking sounds as his drink shook in his grip. The elder vampire could barely spit the words out, "Which…which…The Renoir, you idiot!"

"There's no need for name-calling," Mick said, tossing his friend's words from earlier that week back in his face before reflecting on the wisdom of that statement, given Josef's current mood.

Josef snarled at him, eyes silvering.

Mick held his hands up. "Apologies, that was uncalled for. I get it. You're upset. Are you sure you didn't just misplace it?"

Josef choked on his blood and scotch.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." Mick tossed back another swig from the bottle. "What do you want me to do?"

Josef waved his arms furiously through the air, sloshing a bit of blood on his hand, "Go _find_ it of course!" he yelled. "Are you a private investigator or not?"

Mick's patience was wearing thin. He snapped, "For the last time, _calm_ _down_, Josef. When did you last see the Renoir?"

Josef seethed, but lowered his voice, "This morning. I've been made a fool, Mick. Here." Josef reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a small square envelope, and tossed it in front of the private investigator, among the loose papers and files cluttered on his desk. Mick had only recently started his P.I. business and was still trying to get a handle on organizing his cases.

Mick picked it up with interest. "What's this?"

"Read it," Josef said shortly.

Mick turned the letter over in his hand, noting the glossy purple seal of the Royale on the front. He opened the envelope, and slid out a crisply folded piece of stationary. There was a short note written inside the fold. Judging by the handwriting, Mick guessed the note had been written by a woman. It was a short correspondence, and the young vampire read it over quickly.

_To Mr_._ Kostan,_

_I wish to offer my congratulations on your victory over winning "Moulin de la Galette" at The Royale's auction the other evening. Though I was not in attendance, it was my man who drove the bid up for the painting on my behalf. _

_We seem to share a love for Impressionism, and for Renoir. I would be delighted to buy you a drink to toast your fine taste in art this afternoon at The Royale, and to perhaps discuss Renoir's fine masterpieces._

_I will be waiting for you in the red room, at two o'clock, if you are inclined to accept my invitation._

_~E_

Mick whistled.

"I know," Josef said.

"You have any idea who this 'E' is? Besides a woman?"

Josef shook his head, "No. Not a clue. I was curious to see who had raised the bid on "Moulin de la Galette" so I decided to accept the invitation."

"Let me guess…you waited for, oh, I'd say, 15 minutes, before you realized you'd been had."

Josef growled, "I should have known better. It's so obvious now. 'E' never described herself in the letter, but I realized that too late. By the time I got home, whoever it was who had stolen the painting had already come and gone." The elder vampire's voice took on a sorrowful tone, "And now I've lost the masterpiece."

Mick had a sudden feeling that something much, much deeper than just the loss of the Renoir was bothering his friend. The emotions coming off of Josef were agitated, sorrowful and angry—at the person who had stolen his Renoir, but also at himself. Mick wondered just what it was about "Moulin de la Galette" that resonated with the old man.

"Josef?" Mick hesitated, "All snubs to your reputation and standing aside…I know you said you had met Renoir personally…is that why the loss of the painting is bothering you so much?"

Josef didn't respond for a long time, as he stared down into the dregs of his blood and scotch. Mick was beginning to think that his friend wasn't going to answer, when the 364 year old vampire looked up, meeting Mick's ocean grey eyes. The young vampire was startled and shocked to see the barest hint of tears in Josef's soulful brown orbs.

"I didn't just meet Renoir, Mick. We were close friends."

Mick's jaw dropped. Now that he had done some research on famous painters, he was able to fully appreciate what Josef had said. "Close friends? Wow…" he breathed. "That must have been something."

"Oh, believe you me, it was." Josef gave a half-choked laugh. "Pierre was…was… a true genius. Those don't come along very often, Mick. His paintings…his masterpieces…even now I can see him in the studio…'Stop distracting me, William,' he would say. 'Mon Dieu, are you blind? Can you not see I am working?'" An absentminded smile rose to the surface of Josef's face, and a faraway gleam appeared in his eyes.

Mick arched an eyebrow, "'William'?" he said, drawing Josef's attention back before his friend became lost in another memory.

Josef's smile faded. "Yeah…that's what I went by back then. William…oh what was it? William…Schweitzer. That's it. William Schweitzer…it's been so long. I changed my name again after I left France."

"Why did you leave?" Mick pried gently.

Josef heaved a sigh, and threw back the rest of his blood and scotch in one swallow. He set the now empty glass down on Mick's small coffee table. "Make yourself comfortable, buddy…it's a long story…"

* * *

~_France_~_The Butte Montmartre_~_1875_~

Josef sat at a small, grey iron-wrought table in a shady corner of the outside dining area of the Café Seine, watching the busy streets of Montmartre. Flower menders pushed wooden wheelbarrows overflowing with their freshly picked roses, daisies, and daffodils, the colorful blooms bright and cheerful in the sunshine. Chimney sweeps—their faces black with soot—whistled merrily as they strolled down the cobblestone, as the people passing by them dodged their brushes and bristles, hurrying along their way. From the small café across the street Josef could hear strands of Mozart's "Piano Sonata K.545" being played on the ivory keys.

The vampire sat in the shadows cast by a wooden trellis draped with green climbing ivy, and spotted with yellow flowers. He was dressed in white trousers, with polished white shoes. He wore a white and blue pin-striped jacket. A cream-colored hat sat upon his head, and a light blue tie was knotted neatly around his collar. His walking stick leaned against the table. The only thing to mar the perfectness of the lovely scene was the expression on his face—one of disappointed hopes.

With a sigh, he took out his pocket watch and checked the time. _3:05_. _Marianne is late…_ He wondered what on earth was keeping her? He would have thought that Nicolas would have allowed her to come. He shut his watch with a snap, and tucked it back into his pocket.

He thought about last night, at the dance garden—of meeting Nicolas and laughing with Marianne under the stars and silvery moon. He remembered her excitement at the prospects of him introducing her to Renoir. _Surely, she will arrive any second…_

Another thought, _What's gotten into you, Josef? Why do you care so much if she comes or not? Marianne is only a mortal woman…you can't attach yourself to her._ But even as Josef thought that, he knew that Marianne was much more than just another mortal girl parading before him throughout his many years. _She is something special…Her presence is so refreshing to be around—like taking a swim in a cold, clear pond, or fresh wind being blown into a stuffy attic._ Josef was surprised at himself…it wasn't often that he waxed poetic. But for Marianne…

He gazed anxiously up and down the street, hoping to catch sight of her dark brown hair, and her laughing green eyes…but even with his vampiric vision, he could not spot the mademoiselle amongst the crowds walking the cobblestone.

He pulled out his watch again, _3:15. Marianne's not coming._ He was startled to realize how upset he was over being stood up. _Perhaps it's for the best…better to be disappointed now, before your attachment to her grows more serious._ He rose from his chair, took up his walking stick, and leaving a tip on the table, strolled out of the black, fleur-de-lis spiked, iron gate that led to the café. He turned to head up the street.

A shout rang out through the sunny afternoon, "Guillaume! Guillaume, attendez!" ~_William! William, wait!_~

Josef spun around—hope springing in his breast and lighting his eyes. Hurrying towards him from a little ways down the sidewalk was Marianne, walking on the arm of her brother. Josef sucked in a breath at the sight of her.

Marianne was _beautiful_.

She wore a white dress, with a red silk waist. Tiny, lace, red roses were sewn an inch or two up all around the hem of her skirt. A delicate weave of red and white ruffles were positioned at the top of the dress's bodice. Clear, lace sleeves traveled down her arms, with solid, white lace roses patterned throughout them. The collar of the dress was just under half-way up her throat, where a red silk ribbon—matching the silk at her waist—was tied gracefully through the material. White shoes, and a pair of white gloves accessorized the outfit.

A wide-brimmed, pearl-colored hat bedecked with pink rosebuds rested upon her neatly pinned hair. A piece of white silk lined the hat's edge, coming down to tie in a bow under her chin. Trailing white and pink ribbons fluttered in the afternoon breeze.

One hand was tucked in her brother's elbow, her other holding a white and pink ruffled parasol, opened and raised to protect her fair skin from the sunlight. Her cheeks were rosy, her green eyes sparkled, a pretty smile shone from her delicate lips. She was Aphrodite herself, come to walk among the mortals of Montmartre.

Men turned their heads, watching her as she strolled past them with Nicolas.

Nicolas turned a fine penny himself. His brown hair was no longer disheveled, he had combed it back and he wore a brown hat with a piece of blue silk around the brim. He was dressed in a light brown suit—brown trousers, brown shoes, brown jacket. A blue vest peeked out, with a golden chain to a pocket watch clipped to it.

Trailing four or five steps behind them was a woman dressed in a plain blue dress, with a white apron, edged with a simple lace trim. She wore a white bonnet, and wisps of brown hair curled around the bonnet's edge. Unembroidered lace lined her dress's collar and hem. She looked to be around 40 years old.

Josef shook himself, drinking in Marianne's elegance as he walked down the sidewalk, meeting them. Nicolas held out his hand, "Bonjour Monsieur." ~_Good afternoon, Monsieur._~

Josef shook with Nicolas, saying, "Bonjour. Je suis ravi de vous voir… Je pensais que votre soeur avait décidé de ne pas venir finalement." ~_Good afternoon. I am pleased to see you…I thought perhaps your sister had decided not to come._ The last part of his words were spoken with a glance directed towards Marianne, who flushed a little.

"Je suis tellement désolée, Guillaume. Je n'arrivais pas à trouver mon gant gauche."~_I am so sorry, William. I couldn't find my left glove._~ Marianne smiled softly at him, and Josef smiled back, taking her hand in his, and raising it to his mouth to kiss the back of her palm.

"Ce n'est pas grave. Vous êtes là maintenant." ~_It's nothing. You are here now._~Josef said.

Nicolas spoke, "Vous pardonnez Marianne trop facilement, Guillaume." ~_You forgive Marianne too easily, William._~ He bestowed an affectionate look upon his sister. "Elle perd toujours quelque chose." ~_She is always loosing things._~

Marianne flushed again, "Non, absolument pas!" ~_I am not!_~

Nicolas laughed.

Josef's eyes met Marianne's, "Ne soyez pas gênée. Je perd constamment ma canne." ~_You do not have to feel embarrassed. I am always misplacing my walking stick._~ He held up the gold tipped cane.

Marianne's eyes crinkled, "Vous êtes trop bon Monsieur." ~_You are too kind, sir._~

Nicolas chimed in, "Bien trop bon." ~_Much too kind.~_ He turned to his sister, gave her a small hug, and a kiss on her cheek. His eyes then grew more serious as he turned back to Josef. "Je vous fais confiance avec ma soeur, Guillaume." ~_I am trusting you with my sister, William._~

Josef admired the gentleman for his devotion to his sibling. "Ne vous inquiétez pas Nicolas." ~_Do not worry, Nicolas._~he hastened to reassure. "Marianne est en sécurité avec moi. Je sais comment prendre soin d'une dame. je ne trahirai pas votre confiance."~_Marianne is safe with me. I know how to treat a lady. I will not betray your trust.~_

Nicolas gave a brisk nod. "Il vaudrait mieux. Mademoiselle Bernardin, ici présente, y veillera." ~_You'd better not. Miss Bernardin here, will see to that._~ He indicated the maidservant in the blue dress.

Josef tipped his hat solemnly. Nicolas seemed satisfied. His serious demeanor melted, and he faced his sister again. "Passe un bon moment, Marianne. Tu devras tout me raconter à propos de Monsieur Renoir à ton retour." ~_Have a good time, Marianne. You will have to tell me all about Monsieur Renoir when you return home._~

"Bien sûr. A tout à l'heure, Nicolas." ~_I will. See you soon, Nicolas._~Marianne smiled at her brother, clasping his hands and giving them a soft squeeze.

Nicolas gave her one last kiss on her cheek, and shook Josef's hand once more, "Au revoir." ~_Good day._~and then turned away, heading back in the direction he and Marianne had come.

Josef and Marianne stood together a little awkwardly on the sidewalk for a moment, before Josef remembered his manners and offered Marianne his arm. "Je suis tellement heureux que vous soyez venue, Mademoiselle." ~_I am so pleased you came, Mademoiselle._ The couple strolled up the street together, Marianne's chaperone following a few steps behind.

"Merci." ~_Thank-you._~ Marianne switched languages, "May we converse in English? It is good practice for me."

"Of course. It is no trouble." Josef smiled at her.

They walked in silence for a few more moments, and then Marianne said, "I'm sorry, but are you feeling well, William? You look a little pale."

Josef was touched by her concern. "I'm fine—just a little tired. Pierre and I stayed for a while longer at the gardens after you left last night." A small lie, but Josef couldn't exactly tell her the reason he looked tired was because he was a vampire spending the afternoon in the sunlight.

"Oh. Did you have a good time?" Marianne asked.

"Very." Josef led her around a corner, continuing down the next street. "But I believe the best part of the evening had already happened."

Marianne cast her eyes downward and blushed shyly at his compliment, then switched topics. "I'm curious, William. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"

Josef was only too pleased to share. "Not at all. I'm an attorney. I am a senior partner at the law firm of Schweitzer & Wilhelm."

"Oh," Marianne said, faltering for something polite to say.

Josef could sense her sudden awkwardness that had risen at his presumably lower class, "You think me beneath you?" he teased.

Marianne stumbled over her words, "No! It's just…I mean…You are very well-dressed for an attorney."

Josef chuckled, "My family is descended from one of Germany's noble bloodlines. I do not actually need to earn a living—I inherited a lot of money. But I prefer to have something worthwhile to occupy my time."

Marianne looked at him with admiration, "That is very charitable of you, Monsieur."

For the rest of the walk, Marianne would ask questions about his work, and Josef would patiently answer them, happy to share this part of his life with her. Josef enjoyed practicing law and his current occupation at the firm—much more than his previous incarnation as a land owner, anyways.

The pair strolled through the streets (handmaiden not far behind), chatting about this and that, until they arrived at a small white gated fence leading to an old, two story house. The front gardens were a little unkempt…some weeds peeking up through the grass and flowers. The windows were a bit dirty and the paint a little peeling—as though the occupant's mind dwelled on other, more important things, than maintaining his home. The maidservant was giving the house a suspicious glance over.

"You must forgive my friend," Josef apologized to Marianne. "His head is usually with his paintbrushes."

Marianne nodded, "Oh, but it is a charming little house."

"The entrance to the studio is around back…This way." Josef placed his hand on the small of Marianne's lower back, drawing her with him around to the back of the house. The backyard of the cottage was just as unkempt as the front.

"Well," Marianne said with a small chortle, "At least Monsieur Renoir is consistent."

Josef snorted, "True." He knocked on the back door. He could hear the excited thumping of Marianne's heart, and sense a bit of nervousness coming from her.

Renoir's voice called to them from inside, "Qui est-ce?" ~_Who is it?_~

"It's William, Pierre."

Renoir's voice instantly turned teasing, "William? William? I am sorry, Monsieur, but I am afraid I do not know any William."

Marianne was laughing silently at Josef, who grinned and winked at her, before turning back to shout at Renoir through the door. "Well, then I am sorry to have bothered you, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Chazal and I shall be on our way."

The door flew open, and there stood Pierre-Auguste Renoir. He wore a painter's frock, and was holding a few brushes in his hand. "You should have said that Mademoiselle Chazal was with you, mon ami." He turned to Marianne as Josef made the introduction, "Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer ma chère. Si vous parvenez à captiver à ce point l'attention de Guillaume, vous devez, sans aucun doute, être une jeune femme exceptionnelle." ~_Delighted to meet you, my dear. If you can capture William's attention so, you must indeed be a special young lady._~

Marianne looked suddenly star-struck, and stammered out a polite reply. Josef gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and asked Renoir, "Pierre, are your models decent? I told Marianne she could see your studio."

Pierre's eyes twinkled, "Ah, let me check." He stuck his head backwards in through the doorframe and called out, "Solveig, Paulette, Anne, rhabillez-vous, mes chères." ~_Cover yourselves, my dears._~

A flurry of giggling could be heard from inside the studio. Pierre shut the door, and turned back to Josef, "It will be just a minute." The artist turned to Marianne, "So, ma chère, William tells me that you admire the Impressionist style?"

Marianne nodded, gulping down her nerves, and answered, "Oui, Monsieur. The new way of blending colors and soft lines is so beautiful. My brother, Nicolas, took me to see your exhibit in London last year."

"Ah, so you have seen some of my work—Excusez-moi," ~_Excuse me,_~ Renoir briefly opened the door to his studio again, and shouted, "Solveig, Paulette, Anne, allons mesdames, soyez décentes. Guillaume est ici avec une jeune amie." ~_Come now, ladies, make yourselves decent. William has brought a lady friend._~ A chorus of "Oooo's" and more giggling was Pierre's answer. He shut the door again, muttering, "Modèles." ~_Models_.~ He returned his attention to Marianne, "So, what did you think of the exhibit? Very impressive, no?"

Josef smiled inwardly…'modest' certainly was not a word that sprung to mind whenever he thought of his friend.

Marianne launched enthusiastically into what she had thought of the exhibit, Josef chiming in every now and then. Eventually, Renoir led them inside his studio. Josef watched Marianne, to see her reaction to the famous painter's workspace. He was not disappointed.

Marianne gave a little gasp of delight, "How magnifique!" She turned slowly in a complete circle, taking in every detail of the studio.

A large, stone hearth took up the far end of the room, ashes from an extinguished fire strewn a bit on the sandy-colored planks in front of it. A rickety staircase climbed up to a small attic, a doorway next to the stairs leading to the rest of the house. Renoir's models had left the room, but their conversation and giggling echoed from the front of the house.

Easels, chairs, little lounges, sofas, potted flowers and vines, tables and benches were everywhere, scattered throughout the studio. And then there were the canvases.

Large, small, wide, thin, square, rectangle, barely started, or nearly finished…Renoir's paintings shone out, more lovely than the flowers that adorned the room. Scenes of people, places, colors and brushstrokes swirled and danced, edges and images blurring together so that the entire room was filled with lightness and beauty, and became his greatest masterpiece. One could gaze upon Renoir's artwork for hours, held enchanted by the painter's eye.

Josef never tired of it. He loved Renoir's studio, and it was not often that he saw it in its full glory during the day.

After her initial intake of breath, Marianne had moved further into the workspace, swiveling her head to take in everything around her. She would stop in front of a particular work in progress, eyes shining as she examined it for a minute or two, before moving to the next.

Josef stood near the entrance, Renoir at his shoulder (the chaperone in a discreet corner), as the two men watched Marianne explore.

"I see you have found a woman of fine taste, mon ami. Bien." Renoir said with a smug expression.

Josef was about to answer him when Marianne paused. She had come to a halt in front of a painting depicting beautiful gardens. On a walkway were a young man and lady—lovers presumably. The young man was reaching out to the girl on bended knee, but she had her face turned away from him.

A look passed briefly over Marianne's face as she studied the painting.

Renoir was at her side in an instant, "What is it, Mademoiselle?"

"What is what?" Marianne asked innocently.

Pierre chuckled. "You cannot fool me, ma chère. I saw your face. You do not like the painting?" The artist seemed disappointed.

Marianne exclaimed, "Oh no, the subject matter is lovely, Monsieur. But I think the colors—they are too dark. There is too much shadow…only a little light. If the scene is taking place in the afternoon, there should be more sun."

A stunned silence filled the room.

Marianne appeared mortified at her presumptuous words. A deep blush rose in her cheeks, "Oh, Monsieur Renoir, je suis désolée." ~_I am sorry.~_ "Please forgive my manners."

Josef watched his friend with a critical eye, trying to judge if Pierre was angry.

But then Renoir threw his head back and laughed. "Ma chère, do not apologize for honesty. Truly, you are right, I think. Bien. The canvas is too dark. I will fix it."

Josef could sense Marianne's relief, and crossed to her side, offering her his arm and leading her around to some of the other paintings. He whispered in her ear, "Don't be embarrassed. Pierre likes you, ma belle." ~_My_ _bell_~

Marianne smiled, and whispered back, "Votre belle?" ~_Your_ _bell?_~

The affectionate name had slipped from Josef's tongue unintentionally, but he found that he liked it. It suited Marianne. "Yes," he answered. "For your voice, which is as beautiful as any cathedral bell." He placed his other hand on top of hers which was tucked into the crook of his arm.

Marianne released a small sigh, a content expression on her face as she leaned her head against Josef's shoulder and gazed fondly up at him, "If I am your bell, then you must be my Will."

And Josef was surprised to discover that she was right.

* * *

Thus began their courtship.

Though Josef tried to resist, he couldn't help but jump at every opportunity to spend time with Marianne. He knew he was risking heartbreak, allowing himself to grow fond of her, but when his belle was around, it was impossible to deny his gradually strengthening feelings for her.

Marianne was his sun, his stars, his moon, his sky. She was music, art, theatre, poetry. She was laughter and dancing, smiles and conversation, teases and song. Josef marveled at the fairness of her skin—it's softness and smoothness. Her green gemstone eyes, which sparkled for him, her touch, her elegance and her grace. Her affection for her 'Will'.

Marianne had stolen his heart, so subtly that even Josef hadn't been aware of it, until it was too late.

He took her on walks through the parks, and along the riverbank. They attended the Opera, sitting in Josef's box, and afterwards strolled underneath the moon, gazing at the night sky—Miss Bernardin keeping an eye on them from a few feet back. Josef would point out to Marianne the constellations, and tell her the names of the stars.

They celebrated Marianne's 26th birthday. Josef gave her a pair of silk gloves, with pearl buttons at the wrist. Marianne adored them.

One sleepy afternoon they spread a blanket in the shade of a large oak tree, where Josef lay, propped on one elbow, content to watch Marianne embroider a handkerchief and listen to her hum.

They celebrated Josef's 276th birthday, though Josef told her that he was only turning 27. Marianne gave him a pair of gold cufflinks and a kiss, quickly stolen as Miss Bernardin's attention was momentarily distracted.

They returned to the Moulin de la Galette and danced on the lawn amongst the trees and crowds.

They celebrated Christmas. Josef gave Marianne a tiny hat pin, shaped as a little bell. Marianne gave Josef a handkerchief. She had embroidered his initials, 'W' 'S' over a tiny golden bell. Josef didn't know what to say. He treasured the token of her affection.

They watched the fireworks on Bastille Day, Marianne oo-ing and ah-ing over the colorful explosions. Josef had seen better in China, but those he had watched alone. With Marianne on his arm, somehow Montmartre's rockets were more enjoyable.

They returned to visit Renoir's studio many times, and to Josef's delight, the artist and Marianne grew to be good friends. The three of them would often meet at café's for a late afternoon tea, and to discuss the fine arts, or take strolls along the river. Once, Renoir pulled the handmaid aside, allowing Josef to whisk Marianne behind a tree for a chaste kiss. Her greens eyes shone, "Oh, Will," she sighed, content.

Throughout the courtship, only two things kept Josef from perfect happiness. The amount of time he spent in the sun to see Marianne…and the fact that he continued to lie to her about his true nature…

_Oh, I'm afraid I have no appetite today, my bell. My breakfast disagreed with me._

_It's just a touch of sun-sickness, nothing more._

_Renoir kept me at his studio longer than I intended to stay last night._

_I'm sorry, darling, I have to have lunch today with a client. Perhaps next time?_

Lies, all lies. And Josef hated doing it. How he longed to tell Marianne the truth, to reveal who and what he truly was to her. How many times had he almost just done that, only to change his mind at the last moment?

_Marianne is light, and you are darkness. She would hate you._ Fear of Marianne's rejection if she found out the truth haunted his dreams. He kept his secret, trapped in an agonized limbo of wanting to share it with her, but frightened of what that would do to Marianne, and to him, if Marianne rejected him. He cursed himself often for his idiocy of allowing their attachment to grow. What had started off as a tiny seed had, by now, a year later, bloomed into a beautiful flower.

Josef thought about his secret. _If I told her…_

…_She would leave me._

* * *

Solveig sat at her vanity, brushing her long, golden locks back from her face, and holding various ornate clips up to her hair, turning her head this way and that in the silver-framed mirror, to see how they looked.

She liked the butterfly one.

She wondered if William would like it too.

She flicked her eyes briefly towards the clock, and released an annoyed sigh. William was late. _Again. What is he doing, fasting? This is the third time this week._

She held up another hair comb, and fluttered her eyes at herself, excited with anticipation that William would be feeding from her tonight.

Solveig had it good. She led a charmed life—a preferred model to a famous artist, and a willing supply of liquid refreshment to a powerful vampire. Solveig loved the dreamy sensation that would cloud her mind as William drank from her. There was no other feeling like it in the world. When William bit…it was like they had a special connection.

Solveig smiled to herself, waiting for William to arrive. Tonight would be the night, she had decided. The night where she would reveal to William how she felt about him.

When William had first started to feed from her, Solveig had been flattered, but nothing more. But the more Schweitzer drank from her veins, the more Solveig confused his enthralling with affection. Her feelings for him grew with each midnight visit, and she fancied herself a forbidden love of the vampire's—stealing away in the dead of night to come see her.

The fact that William had never even once shown any indication of love, Solveig didn't notice. She twisted his actions and words around in her mind, until practically everything he did and said was a declaration of his feelings for her. By now, Solveig's lust for him consumed her, practically burning her alive.

She was confident that William would feel the same way…after all, was she not his preferred girl? Was she not his papillon? His butterfly?—so called for the small butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder blade. When the muscle underneath it moved, it gave the appearance of fluttering.

Solveig loved butterflies, and she had an extensive collection. Butterfly jewelry—hair clips, and hat pins, brooches, necklaces, charms. Butterfly art—sketches, paintings, small sculpture, calligraphy. She had a wooden box, shaped as a butterfly, and butterfly knickknacks scattered throughout her bedroom. Butterflies were embroidered onto her throw pillows, the hem of the draperies, handkerchiefs and on wall hangings.

And tucked away in a shadowy corner of her vanity, was a collection of dead butterflies, in a glass-lid box, each beautiful insect trapped for eternity as she had slowly pinned them alive into the blood red felt, one by one.

A tap against her window drew her from her thoughts. Solveig smiled. William was here.

* * *

Josef stood in the moonlight in the small, weedy yard at the boarding house where Solveig lived. He eyed her window and picked up another small pebble to throw up against the glass. He was hungry and not inclined to be patient. He had spent the afternoon with Marianne in the sunshine, and he was feeling drained and tired. He needed some fresh blood flowing in his veins.

He was about to throw another pebble when Solveig slid the window up, and whisper-shouted to him, "I'm coming, William. Just a moment."

"Hurry up," Josef snapped.

Solveig snapped right back, "I'm not transpiring about in that muddy yard without my shoes. You just have to wait a few seconds."

Josef snarled, low and deep in his chest. No one told him to wait, especially a silly mortal girl.

He listened to Solveig moving about her bedroom, and then continued to track her through the boarding house, down the stairs, into the kitchen, and out the door to the tiny yard, where he was pacing.

She shut the backdoor quietly behind her, and hadn't even fully turned around, when Josef grabbed her from behind, spinning her into his chest, and biting into her neck, while sending a powerful wave of his allure sweeping through her. He was starving, and he was going to have his dinner.

Solveig was surprised at his force, but pleased. Josef didn't bite from her neck often. _He was so impatient to see me…It must be love._ She snuggled into Josef's arms, eyes clouded and dreamy as his enthrallment hypnotized her, sending her into a trance of absolute and total bliss.

Josef drank deeply, feeling strength and energy return to his body. Solveig's life force flowed into him, her blood rich, warm, and full of passion—

_Wait a moment…Passion?_ Josef pulled his fangs from her throat…_Perhaps I overdid the enthralling…_ He retracted his allure, and discreetly sniffed Solveig as she returned to her senses. He was not satisfied with what he found. _Passion, lust, want, need, love…Damn._

He opened his mouth to set Solveig straight, but she beat him to it, "You feel it too, don't you William? I'm so glad. Now we can be together." She took a step towards him, and Josef took a step back, wary.

"Solveig," he started…

"Shh," she stepped in close, placing her finger on his lips. "I want you, and you want me…there's nothing more to say…"

"On the contrary—" Josef tried to get a word in edgewise.

"Take me, William. Have your way with me." Solveig threw herself onto a very shocked and stunned Josef.

Josef felt anger rising in his chest. _How dare she act so impertinent! Time to put a stop to this foolishness._ He roughly grabbed Solveig by her upper arms, and she mewled happily, "Yes, that's right…" She interpreted his actions as foreplay.

"No, it's wrong." Josef pushed her off of him, holding her firmly at an arm's length away.

Solveig looked confused and hurt, as she struggled against his grip. "Wrong? What's wrong? We can be together. You don't have to deny your feelings, William."

Josef growled, "That is where you are mistaken, Solveig. I harbor no higher feelings for you than those of a gentleman who appreciates a fine glass of wine. There is no affection on my part for you. Your assumption is wrong, Mademoiselle."

Solveig stared at him, clearly not understanding. "I know you don't mean that, William…I know that you lo—"

Josef cut her off with a hiss, as his eyes silvered and he bared his fangs at her. "Hear this now, Solveig, for I will not tolerate this delusion of yours to continue. I harbor no love for you—you are food, nothing more. My affections lie with a different lady. There is nothing between us Solveig, and there never was." He released her, pushing her back a little and turned to leave the yard.

"You don't mean that," Solveig wailed. "It's a lie. You're lying! I'm your papillon!" ~_Butterfly_~ She reached out and placed her hand on Josef's shoulder.

Josef whirled around, and roared in her face. Solveig shrank back, terrified in the face of the vampire's wrath. Josef's next words fell as icy drops, one by one, burning onto her heart. "I do not love you. And our arrangement has come to an end." Without so much as another word, he was gone, vanished as smoke on the wind.

Solveig stood, sobbing for him to come back, "William! William!"

* * *

Solveig lay on her bed, back upstairs in her room at the boarding house. Her face was buried in her pillow, muffling her heartbroken cries. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks…her chest heaved as she gasped for air, hiccupping between sobs. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes red and her nose runny. _William rejected me…_She cried all the harder. _Why would he do that?_

A new emotion filled her at the thought—anger. She recalled his words and rough actions towards her. Though he hadn't left any bruises, her arms still hurt from where he had grabbed her…but as for emotional bruises, he had left plenty.

_—No higher feelings for you than those of a gentleman who appreciates a fine glass of wine—_

—_There is nothing between us Solveig, and there never was—_

—_You are food, nothing more—_

Such cruel, cruel words. He had thrown her love back in her face, stomped all over it, shredded her hope to pieces. _You are food, nothing more._

_Food? Food?! We'll see about that. How dare he speak to me thus, and he a gentleman!_ Solveig's blue eyes blazed with anger. How dare William treat her in that fashion. He had practically done everything but spit on her. He had _frightened_ her.

Solveig rose to a sitting position on her bed, staring at her bloodshot eyes, and puffy cheeks in her vanity's mirror. A sudden rage overwhelmed her, and she ripped out her hair clip and hurled it at the reflective glass. It didn't shatter, but a spider web of splinters spread across the surface.

Solveig stared into her cracked mirror, and thought, _No one treats me this way…no one rejects me. William will regret he didn't take me when he had the chance. He thinks of me as food? Well, I'll show him who's food…_

Solveig rose from the bed, and sat down in front of her vanity, brushing her hair, and holding combs up to her golden tresses once more. She appeared not to even notice the mirror's cracks, as she turned and bobbed her head, admiring her hair clips and her figure, as she plotted her revenge.

* * *

~_Los Angeles~1963~_

The shrill ringing of Mick's office telephone broke into Josef's story. Both young and old vampire alike started at the sudden interruption of the smooth narrative that elder vampire had been weaving. Mick had never realized that his friend was such a talented storyteller. _I suppose that only makes sense…_ he thought.

Josef arched an eyebrow at him. "You gonna answer that, boyo?" The telephone was still ringing.

"Oh, right." Mick picked up the phone, "St. John Private Investigations."

He spoke briefly with a client as Josef pulled out his pocket watch and glanced impatiently at the time.

Mick swiftly concluded the call, and Josef rose from the couch. The young vampire arched his brow, "You're not going to finish your story?"

Josef shook his head, "Maybe later. I need you to get on this, Mick. I want my painting returned."

Mick hid his disappointment, "I'll start my investigation right away. I'd like to hear more about Marianne sometime, though."

"Buddy, if you find "Moulin de la Galette," I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Mick arched a brow, "Anything?"

"Within reason," Josef amended, heading towards the office door.

Mick called after him, "Are you heading back to your house, Josef?"

The elder vampire nodded.

Mick rose, grabbing his duster, "I'll come with you. I'm going to need to see the spot where the Renoir hung."

"No problem."

The two vampires exited the office, Mick preoccupied with planning the steps he would take to solve this case. First, he would examine the crime scene at Josef's—see if he could lift any prints. If that panned out, great. If not, Mick thought that he might drop by the Royale to speak with the owner, see if the club's proprietor could possibly tell him anything about who had delivered the note, maybe get a description.

Mick was confident in his investigating abilities. There were several possible leads to work with—one of them would turn something up.

He'd get _Moulin de la Galette_ back for his friend. _Maybe I can even charge him two million for it…_

* * *

Emilie took a sip of B positive from her wine glass, and glanced at the grandfather clock in the front hall. _Something went wrong…It's taking too long…Mr. Kostan returned home faster than expected…Something's wrong…_

She resisted the urge to call Stefan to see what was happening. But it was so difficult to sit back and wait patiently. How she longed to hold _Moulin_ _de_ _la_ _Galette_ in her hands, to see the Impressionist masterpiece once more.

The vampiress had heard through discreet channels that the Renoir piece would be up for bid at the Royale's charity auction. She had sent Stefan to the auction for the sole purpose of bidding on the painting—but when Stefan had returned home that night, it was only to report failure, that the painting had been won by another bidder…with a winning bid of two million dollars.

Emilie had been shocked by the amount. She wasn't angry at Stefan. He hadn't known that she would have gladly paid any amount to acquire the piece. She should have told him that, it was her own oversight that had cost her the canvas.

Logic told her that a person who would bid two million dollars to win a painting, would not willingly sell it so quickly. No, she would have to acquire through other means…other, less legal means…

It had been simple enough to devise her plan.

The auction records showed the canvas had been won by a Mr. Josef Kostan. Emilie had heard of him—as one of the oldest and most powerful vampires in Los Angeles, his reputation was well known. For a moment, Emilie had faltered. Did she really want to risk bringing the wrath of one of the city's elder vampires down upon her? She was still relatively young, only 87 years old.

But the Renoir! She must have it! She decided the risk was worth any chance at finding the painting again at last. She anxiously gazed at the entrance to her sitting room, waiting for her manservant to walk through.

Finally, came the distinct chug of Stefan's car engine. Emilie set down her glass of blood, and folded her trembling hands on her lap, holding her breath, as her servant entered. Stefan carried a black case.

Emilie rose from her chair, "Did you get it, Stefan?"

He grinned at her, "Of course." He set the case on the table.

Emilie ran a hand reverently over the surface. "What took you so long?" she breathed.

Stefan sniffed, and shuffled his feet, "Had to make sure this Kostan fellow was really gone, now din' I? 'Ad to get through his security wit'out gettin caught, din' I?"

"Yes, you did, I suppose. Thank you, Stefan. You've done wonderfully."

Stefan tipped his cap, "Will that be all, missus?"

Emilie nodded. "Yes, you are free to do as you wish."

"Thank you, missus." Stefan left the sitting room.

Emilie turned to the black case resting on the tabletop. She moved the glass of blood to a smaller coffer table, and then returned to the case.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, she opened it.

Her breath caught—there it was. One of the most famous Impressionist paintings ever done…and one of Renoir's greatest masterpieces.

Tears welled in the vampiress's eyes as she gazed longingly at the scene of the dance garden, of the crowds—laughing, chatting, and carousing. Her eyes traveled to the three dancing couples. Of the three, only one held special significance to her.

She gazed at William's likeness—the first time she had seen it for nearly a hundred years. Her heart ached, as she recalled with burning shame the last words she had ever spoken to him.

"_I may have loved you once, but no longer. You are nothing but a wolf in sheep's skein…"_

"_Marianne, please…" his warm brown eyes pleaded with her._

"_No. Leave me, William. I never wish to see you again." Marianne turned her back to him._

"_You don't mean that. It's me, my bell. It's your Will."_

_Her next words tore from her heart. "William is dead to me. All I see before me is a monster. Leave, and do not come back."_

_There was nothing but silence behind her. Marianne whirled around. William was gone._

A tear trickled from the corner of Emilie's eye, as she recalled her cruel words. Her hand moved to a spot above her heart, where a small scar rested against her pale skin. Fate was indeed cruel, punishing her for her selfishness. She had refused to listen to William, and she was now paying the price.

For the thousandth time, she wondered where William might be, what he might be doing. _Is he even still alive?_ Emilie didn't know. As Marianne, she had searched and searched for William during the years, even decades, after her turning, but to no avail. William was gone.

Emilie, as she went by now, wistfully gazed at the couple dancing. Her dark blue dress, William's golden hair. Pierre had truly captured their love on the canvas. This was all she had left of her love.

Emilie was alone.

_Finis_

* * *

Reviews are welcome! **: )** Many thanks to all my readers.


	3. Moulin de la Galette: part III

****

Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own Moonlight.

**A/N: **The frame story here is a bit more serious than it has been for the past two chapters—this is a more serious chapter.

**A/N2:** My sincerest apologies for the long wait. Again, as I've stated on my other stories, I am insanely busy. But I do my best to get these updates to you as soon as I can write them. Thank you all SO much for your patience. Here's the next part.

Many, many thanks to my wonderful readers, and my two AMAZING betas, **moonshine** and **Ancholia.** Love ya both! **: )**

Please forgive typos…

Enjoy!

_Moulin de la Galette, part III_

~_Los Angeles~1963~_

Sharp, silver moonlight shone into Josef's dark study—both illuminating and casting the ancient soul's face into shadows. The blinds were open, allowing the solitary vampire to admire the night and the shining moon. The heavenly orb spilled soft moonlight upon his darkened gardens, the hoary light dancing down to the trees, caressing their branches with a lover's touch. Silver shadows kissed the ferns and vines—the lawn appeared as though it was covered in the lightest, most delicate layer of frost.

A patch of silver light fell through the window, rippling moonbeams cascading as a waterfall upon the dark blue rug, reflecting into the dark room like a thousand glittering gems. The spines of his many books gleamed, their titles stark and painfully clear to read, while the back of the shelves were cast into deep shadow. Moonlight filled the room, a comforting, familiar presence—his first love—_la lune._ If only she could give him the answers he sought.

_Marianne…Marianne…_

How he missed her—her bright green eyes, which sparked with intelligence and laughed with good humor. Her long, brown curls, pulled stylishly back and pinned into place. Her elegant dresses, which twirled about her as she swayed in his arms…Her delicate touch, her slender fingers…her hand on his arm as they strolled along the riverbank of Montmartre, listening to the river running its ever faithful course. How Josef longed to see her again. His heart _ached_ for her.

From where he sat on the edge of his desk, Josef picked up his decanter of scotch and poured himself another drink. He tossed the drink back in one fiery gulp, waiting to feel the alcohol's warmth spread through him—to make him feel alive, even if it was only for the briefest of seconds. A bitter thought slipped through his mind, _Marianne made me feel alive…_

He was in a black mood. Mick had already come and gone…whoever who had stolen his painting, the thief was clever enough to not leave a single fingerprint. So now Mick was off to the club to see if the proprietor could possible give him a description of who delivered the note.

To be brutally honest, Josef was relieved that Mick had left. His friend had been asking him questions about living in France—about Marianne, and Renoir. Josef wondered at himself that he had shared such intimate memories with his friend—he had never been one to open his heart and bare his soul.

But when Mick had asked about why Josef had left France, the urge to finally be able to share his terrible hurt was too tempting to pass by. _Marianne died…because of me…my foolish hope. You knew better, you bastard, to get involved with a human. You knew better…and your love for her destroyed someone precious._ Josef blinked back a few tears that had snuck up on him.

Telling Mick about Marianne—it stirred up a hornet's nest of painful memories from the past that Josef would rather not recall…

* * *

_~France~The Butte Montmartre~1876~_

"Give me your hand."

"Oh, Will. Really, what are you up to?" Marianne trilled a few notes up the piano briefly to emphasize her question. She was seated at the instrument, which was located in the sitting room of her home.

The room was light and airy…Oriental rugs were underfoot, potted green ferns and colorful flowers sat on little vanities, and small tables. There was a small bookshelf—the red, gold and blue backs of the novels adding a bit of extra color to the atmosphere. The sitting room was lovely, elegant. The centerpiece of the room was the grand piano, always in tune—it was often that Josef would find Marianne playing—her talented fingers moving with ease over the white ivories.

But Josef had interrupted her playing…her expectant face was turned eagerly towards him, with a hint of amusement and excitement.

"Patience, ma belle. Vous le verrez bientôt." _~Patience, my belle. You'll see.~_ Josef grinned at the vision of beauty seated before him, as he stood next to the piano.

Marianne was dressed in a pale green gown, white petticoats and lace trimming the skirt of the dress. A delicate white and green silk ribbon held the waist of the gown in tight, matching the emerald green of her eyes. She was lovely—and Josef couldn't take his eyes off of her.

He was dressed in brown. His vest was a deep gold, his dark brown tie neatly tucked behind the vest's buttons. His shoes were black, polished until they positively shone. He was the very picture of a dashing young gentleman…he and Marianne—the ideal young lovers.

"Close your eyes and give me your hand. I've a surprise." Josef's eyes sparkled with barely suppressed laughter at the exasperated expression upon Marianne's face. But his love obediently closed her eyes and faithfully placed her hand in his.

Josef turned her hand in the air, so that it was palm upwards, and pulled from his suit jacket a small bracelet with a single charm. He clasped the chain around Marianne's wrist, turning her hand back palm down, and placing a chaste kiss upon her fingertips.

Marianne smiled, long lashes dark against her pale cheek, "May I open my eyes now, William?"

"Oui, " _~Yes~_ "Open them." Josef released her hand.

Marianne opened her eyes, letting out a small gasp of delight when she saw Josef's present. Hanging from her wrist was a delicate golden chain…a single charm dangling in the air…two dancers—a gentleman and a lady—each held close in the other's arms.

Josef listened with some satisfaction to the fluttery cadence of Marianne's heart and her gentle sighs. Marianne turned her gaze from the charm, to meet Josef's eyes, "Oh, Will…"

Josef spoke softly, "It reminded me of the night we met, how we danced on the lawn."

Marianne's voice trembled with emotion, "It's lovely." She snuck a glance to Miss Bernardin, who had dozed off in the corner of the sitting room. After satisfying herself that it was safe, Marianne leaned upwards, as Josef bent down towards her, and she gave him a swift kiss.

But though it was quickly stolen, it was no less passionate for the speed with which it was given. Josef melted into her touch. How he longed to be able to hold her body, to feel her skin underneath his hands, to stroke her hair, to kiss her whenever he desired. Propriety limited him to only the barest of touches—her hand on his arm, his lips to the back of her palm. It was becoming increasingly frustrating for both of them. They both longed for more.

Josef knew Marianne wanted him to propose. It was only natural that she should expect it. He had been courting her steadily for an entire year now—but Josef could not propose. And if he didn't think of something soon, he was going to lose her…after all Marianne didn't have forever to wait for him.

She remained oblivious to his true nature as she had been the night they had danced at the Moulin de la Galette. Josef had tried to tell her his secret many times…but each time, he lost his courage to go through with his intentions. He was terrified of losing Marianne—terrified by the strength of his affection for her. On days when he was being honest with himself, the truth was, he loved her.

_I love her._

Once realized there could be no denying it. His soul sang for Marianne…she made him feel young; she made him happy—it had been so long since he had felt true joy—how could he risk losing this feeling? Marianne restored the spark to his eyes, the spring to his step, she gave him cause to smile, laugh, tease, _love._ Though at times they were a little mismatched—Marianne timid where Josef bold, she gentle where Josef a little rough—they both shared an intense curious nature—to discover new things, to explore the world around them—both intelligent, both graceful. They strolled for hours every day, conversing on all manner of topics.

Josef and Marianne quickly broke their kiss, as Miss Bernardin startled out of her nap. Josef swore that woman had vampire powers of detecting emotion. Their chaperone turned a beady eye upon them, lingering upon the vampire. Marianne turned back to the ivory keys as Josef leaned innocently against the piano. He fought the urge to squirm under the handmaiden's gaze; to be perfectly frank—he was a little scared of her. Never had he encountered a woman quite like Miss Bernardin. Nicolas had been right when he said the handmaiden would keep an eye on them…she kept a close and strict eye on her charge, and as a direct result, kisses between the lovers were scarce indeed.

Josef closed his eyes as Marianne started to play, becoming lost in the swirling music. He pushed all worrisome musings aside for now, and allowed himself to enjoy this moment. Later this afternoon they were going to Renoir's studio—the artist wanted to show them the new progress he had made on his painting of the Moulin de la Galette—and Josef didn't want to cloud their outing with an melancholy air. He could push aside his worries for now.

But sooner or later he knew he was going to have to tell Marianne who—what—he truly was.

Just not today…not yet, not yet.

* * *

_Later that same day…_

Solveig glanced at herself in her splintered mirror. _Today…I will do it today…_ The model turned her head back and forth in the front of the looking glass…checking both sides of her face and admiring her beauty. _How can William not desire me? How can he possibly not want me?_ An angry tear splashed down her cheek. She didn't understand how she could have been rejected—no man ever rejected her—_ever_.

She picked up the small revolver from her vanity, and spun open the chamber. With trembling fingers she loaded the weapon—silver bullets, specially requested, and now finally here, finally hers. They silver had cost her a pretty penny, but she knew that silver would hurt _him._

She had overheard Renoir mention that William and Marianne would be visiting this afternoon. It was the perfect opportunity. No one would be suspicious to see her at the studio—after all, was she not one of the famed painter's prized models? No one would suspect anything amiss, and by then it would be too late. William would be dead—her revenge, exacted.

Solveig rose from her vanity, checking her hair one last time. Hiding the small pistol within the swishing folds of her skirt as she walked, she hurried back to Renoir's studio. It was only noon, but she wanted plenty of time to prepare for William's arrival. She would make sure that this visit would be his last.

* * *

Marianne strolled on William's arm, while with her other hand she held her opened parasol, protecting her fair skin from the harsh sunlight. She and her beau walked quietly, Miss Bernardin a few feet behind them.

Marianne sighed happily. Will turned his soft brown eyes towards her, the corners of his mouth crinkling in a small smile, "Qu'il y a-t-il, ma belle?" _~What is it, my bell?~_

"Rien. Je suis juste heureuse." _~It's nothing, I am just happy.~_

"Ce n'est pas rien pour moi." _~That does not sound like nothing to me.~_ They returned to walking in comfortable silence. It was a sunny afternoon, so they kept the shade as much as possible for William's sake. Marianne had long ago come to the conclusion that her beau had a delicate constitution. He often appeared pale and drawn on their afternoons spent in the sunshine—it was a shame, for Marianne dearly loved the sun and to stroll out in the park or garden.

But there was plenty of both shade and sun for the both of them as they ambled down the sidewalk, Marianne's hand tucked securely in the crook of William's elbow. She had taken off the bracelet William had clasped around her wrist, placing it upstairs in her bedroom, where it would be safe, and had put on a pair of gloves, and a wide-brimmed pale, pale green hat. A piece of dark green silk tied in a bow under her chin to hold her hat in place. She was the picture of beauty this afternoon, her and her William.

His walking stick tapped rhythmically against the pavement, his air and expression for the most part relaxed. Marianne considered him—she loved William with her whole heart…but did he love her? There was something in his manner even now that felt like he was holding back from her—hiding something.

Certainly he was a mysterious man. Things didn't always add up around him. He didn't eat…she never could find him before eleven most mornings. His sensitivity to sunlight—he was always so very pale…

But there was something entrancing about the way he moved…Marianne had never met anyone as graceful as he. And the things he knew…that was what she loved most about William—he listened to her, respected her—how many of her past beaus had forced their opinions upon Marianne, while disregarding her own thoughts because of her sex?

But William was generally interested in hearing what she had to say, he always listened to her with an open-mind that Marianne found incredibly refreshing. William seemed a gentleman ahead of the times, and when Marianne imagined their future together, she saw a relationship of equals.

That is…if William would ever get around to proposing to her. Marianne glanced sideways at him. There was something almost hesitant in William's behavior lately—as though he was worrying over something. Marianne wished he would share his troubles with her, but she knew William was a very private man.

Her Will glanced at her—obviously feeling her gaze upon him, "Is something the matter, my bell?" Marianne loved his endearment for her. She didn't think her voice was as clear and strong as William did, but she often would sing or hum for him, knowing how much he loved to listen to her songs.

"Are you happy with me, William?" It was a bold question, but Will was slowly teaching her to be bold.

He arched a brow, surprise splashing across his face at her unexpected words. He turned his full gaze towards her, "I am very happy, Marianne. You make me happy."

It was what Marianne wanted to hear, but still she felt nervous. _If Will is so happy with me then why doesn't he propose?_

"But then why…why…" With a frustrated sigh, Marianne swallowed her question back. It was not a lady's place to ask such questions.

But William seemed to know what she had wanted to say anyways, "Why don't I propose?" he asked for her quietly, so quietly Marianne almost didn't hear him.

"Yes," she whispered back to him, an embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks as her green eyes anxiously searched her love's face for answers.

William paused, stopping Marianne with him. Miss Bernardin hung back, keeping her ever watchful eye upon the two. William clasped Marianne's hands in his as he met her questioning gaze. He spoke in French.

"Ma belle, je suis désolé. On intention n'est pas de vous blesser. Je… je ne suis simplement pas encore prêt… il y a certaines choses à mon propos… que vous devez savoir… dont je dois vous parler." _~My bell, I am sorry. I do not intend to hurt you. I…I am just not ready yet…there are things about me…you do not know…you must know…I must tell you~_

His voice faltered and his fingers tightened on hers. She had never before seen him struggle so to speak to her. "Je ne peux pas encore vous le dire. Je vous en prie, ma belle, je n'ai pas le courage maintenant… Je ne peux pas vous demander en mariage, désolé." _~I cannot tell you yet…Please, my bell, I have not the courage now…I cannot propose to you. I'm sorry.~_

Marianne felt tears well in her eyes, and she could not stop the one the spilled down her cheek at his words. William saw, and a look of anguish crossed his face, that he had caused that tear.

"Ma belle, ma belle… Marianne. Pitié, ne pleurez pas…Je vous aime." _~My Bell, my bell…Marianne. Please don't cry… I love you.~_

Marianne didn't hear the words at first. Gradually, what he had said trickled down into her thoughts. _Did he just say he loved me?_ It was the first time he had ever told her those words. Marianne's sadness vanished as an intense joy rose in her breast…_William loves me!_

She realized William was still anxiously waiting for her reaction to his confession, and Marianne did not disappoint him. She smiled through her tears as she responded, "Oh Will, you have my heart." She squeezed his hands.

"And you will always have mine, my bell. Never doubt me. I will always come for you."

Marianne reached up, placing her gloved palm against his cheek. "Yes, I believe you will." William closed his eyes at her touch, but not before Marianne caught a glimpse of tears.

A loud cough from Miss Bernardin caused Marianne to quickly drop her hand. She flushed a little, but mostly she was frustrated. How she longed to be able to touch William…to cuddle up to his side, and let him wrap his arms around her. To kiss his lips and stroke his cool skin. But for now, they had to both behave themselves. Marianne hated propriety just this instance.

William gave a light chuckle beside her, "One day, my bell, one day we will be able to touch." He offered her his arm once more, and she placed her hand back in the crook of her elbow. They resumed their walk, continuing onwards to Renoir's studio.

"One day, indeed," Marianne huffed.

William's beautiful laugh was her only answer.

* * *

"Ah William, your bell becomes more and more lovely every day. More and more I think I will steal her from you." Pierre-Auguste Renoir lightly teased his friend in-between puffs on his cigarette.

"You could try," Josef growled, defensive. He was slightly on edge. He had pledged himself to Marianne. _What did I do? What was I thinking? Promise myself to a mortal?!_ Ever since he had arrived at the studio, briefly separating from Marianne as his bell wandered amongst the paintings, Josef's heart was thudding painfully in his chest, his stomach was twisted with nerves.

He had confessed his feelings to Marianne. He had finally confessed to her, and himself, that he was in love with her. _Why? Why did I give her that power over me? How will I ever tell her my secret now? How can I?_

Telling Marianne he loved her—never before had he ever felt so elated. But soon the reality of what he had said crashed down upon his shoulders and he had never felt as terrified as he did now. Marianne did not know what he was. He was a monster—seducing an innocent girl into selling her soul to the devil…His thoughts spun and chased each other in a panicked circle…_Why did I allow this to happen? How could I have fallen for a mortal? How could I have done this? How will I tell her?! How—_

"Mon ami? Vous allez bien? Etes-vous malade?" _~Are you all right? Are you ill?_~ Renoir's concerned voice cut through his frightened musings. Josef placed a mask of calm over his face.

"I'm all right, Pierre. Just a little nervous." He said the words before realizing how Pierre would most likely interpret them.

Renoir's face brightened and his eyes twinkled. "Est-ce que je pense, Guillaume?" _~Can it be what I think, William?~ "_You are going to propose? Très bien. It is about time. When is the wedding?"

Josef groaned and threw up his hands. "You are hopeless, old friend."

"Oui, I am. You speak truth, as always. Now…" Renoir clapped his hands, "Now, I will show you the progress on my painting and you will admire it, yes? Bien. Come, come, it is this way."

Blowing smoke in Josef's face, Renoir led his friend across the studio to a covered canvas. He reached out, grabbing the corner of the cloth in his fist, preparing to reveal his work. "I have a surprise for you, mon ami. I think you will like it very much." With a flourish, he pulled the cloth away, revealing the painting underneath.

Josef took in a small breath—even unfinished "Moulin de la Galette" was captivating. The painting was nearly complete…after almost a year's work, what once had been nothing but bare sketches—ghosts of the gardens and laughing crowds—now was solid, alive. The only thing left to paint were the dancers…Josef gazed towards the left of the painting…Renoir had made a few light marks, outlining two figures, a gentleman and a lady in each other's arms. Here for the gentleman's hair was a brush of light brown…the lace on the lady's dress was ebony—

"Do you like it, mon ami?"

Josef was stunned. He answered honestly, "You have outdone yourself." He narrowed his eyes at the dancing couple…_Surely it's not what I am thinking…_

Renoir's amused voice cut into his thoughts, reading Josef's unspoken question, "Oh yes, mon ami, it is you and Mademoiselle Chazal. I think my depiction is too kind. You are not so handsome in person." He chuckled at his joke, but a second later he was all seriousness as he asked, "Non, really—Qu'en pensez-vous?" _~What do you think?~_

"It's perfect, Pierre." Josef continued to admire the painting.

A small gasp of delight behind the gentlemen alerted them to Marianne's nearness. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she beheld the canvas, coming to stand beside Josef. "Oh Monsieur, it is lovely."

Renoir waved a hand through the air, "It is nothing, nothing." He drew in another puff on his cigarette, as he studied the masterpiece-in-progress, and then winked at Marianne, "But who am I to question the word of a lady?" He chuckled to himself, as Marianne and Josef smiled.

It was then, that everything went to hell.

Josef had enough time to catch a whiff of a familiar scent…_Solveig…_ before the feeling of an insane devastation from the model slammed into him, stealing his breath. Solveig's rage oozed out into the room, until Josef was nearly choking on it. He heard at his side, Marianne's confused voice, "Will?" but he could not answer her. He cast his eyes about the studio desperately, searching for the bitter model.

She made herself easy to find. Time slowed in a moment of panicked dread as his former freshie stepped out from where she had concealed herself behind a large canvas, her blue eyes glittering an icy rage. In her hand was a revolver—pointed at him. There was no doubt in Josef's mind that the bullets would be silver.

Solveig sneered at him, "Dis au revoir, Guillaume." _~Say good-bye William.~_

And then…then she swung the pistol's sights towards Marianne and fired.

* * *

Solveig had hidden herself behind a large canvas in Renoir's studio. She fingered her revolver slowly, lovingly—she caressed the cold steel. Soon…it would be very soon now…

She heard them arrive, William and that girl he always seemed to be with. Solveig couldn't understand why he spent his time with _her_ when he could be with his Papillion instead. She didn't think Mademoiselle Chazal was anything special—yet William preferred her.

_William prefers her…_

A delicious idea gathered in Solveig's mind, stretching, filling out until the beauty of her revenge shone before her in a rose-colored crystalline image. All this time she had thought she would shoot William…

She gripped her pistol tightly in a fist that trembled with fury. How hard it was to stand here quietly, listening to Renoir and William joke and laugh—to talk of marriage! _No! No! If William will not have me, he will not have anyone._

She peeked out around the edge of the canvas, checking the positions of everyone else. William and Renoir stood at his painting, Marianne was approaching behind them. A more perfect opportunity would not present itself again. Solveig glanced around for the handmaiden, and was satisfied to see that the chaperone's attention was momentarily on a different painting, her back turned to the young couple for the briefest of seconds. It was time to make William pay for scorning her.

She stepped out from behind the canvas, watching with a gleeful pleasure as William spun around to face her—his expression panicked, his warm brown eyes angry, in an instant bleeding to frosted fire.

Solveig relished the expression on his visage. She had put it there. She raised her revolver and pointed it at the center of his chest. When she spoke, her voice was as cold as hate, "Dis au revoir, Guillaume." _~Say good-bye, William._~

As she swung the pistol to aim at Marianne, she smiled to see the terror-stricken look on William's face, as he realized who exactly she was going to shoot. She was too far away for the vampire to stop her. Mademoiselle Chazal was a dead woman.

Solveig sighted the revolver on Marianne's left breast, just above her heart, and fired.

* * *

The shot…

Marianne's frightened scream…

Shouting…

Pain…a burning pain in his palm…

_Marianne!_

A white static was buzzing in his head, blinding him. He blinked, clearing his vision, sounds returning to him. He became aware of Marianne standing by his side. Solveig was gone…she had fled apparently.

His hand…it was still burning. His fingers had convulsed. With effort Josef opened them, dropping the silver bullet with a growl. A bloody streak crossed the length of his palm—he had snatched the bullet from the air before it could hurt his beloved.

Josef turned to Marianne, but she shrank back from him. Too late he remembered—his face—his eyes, his teeth. Marianne could see him, his secret revealed at last, in the worst way possible. He quickly let the vampire fall away, his fangs vanishing back into his teeth, his cold blue eyes melting into the soft browns Marianne had always known.

He stepped towards her, reaching for her hand, "Marianne…"

But she stepped back from him, eyes wide with fear, "You stay away from me!"

Miss Bernardin had come over at the gunshot and screams. Josef didn't think she had saw his face, but he knew by her expression that she thought him a different kind of monster. It was too much for him to bear.

"Marianne, _please_…Let me explain." he pleaded with her. His voice dropped to a whisper, "Je vous aime." _~I love you.~_

"You are a monster," Marianne's voice shook, and she turned away, running out of the studio, tears spilling down her cheeks. With a swish of her pale green skirts, and one last flash of her brown curls she was gone. Josef's greatest fear realized.

_No! No! Marianne!_ Josef's panic grew, engulfing him. Marianne was gone! She was gone! His vision went grey, as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He swayed for a moment, the man and vampire both distressed beyond endurance. Marianne had left him. He was alone once more. He struggled to control himself.

And then…more pain. A sudden punch to his face blinded him for an instance as black spots exploded across his vision. The vampire roared to life, turning to see who would attack him.

Josef spun around, hissing—only to stop short.

It was Renoir. And the artist was spitting mad—the same look of fear and revulsion upon his face as that which had been upon Marianne's.

"Get out, démon."

Josef felt his world crumbling around him. He couldn't take his friend's rejection on top of Marianne's dismissal. "Pierre, it's still me. I am William—nothing has changed."

"Everything is changed." Renoir bristled at him. "Get out!"

"My friend—"

But Renoir would not let Josef finish, "You are no friend of mine. William is dead. All that stands before me is a démon. Now go!"

The words struck Josef as a physical blow—each utterance sinking their claws into his heart and shredding his soul into tatters of anguish. Unable to face the revulsion in his friend's face, he stumbled back, fleeing his friend's studio.

The sun burned on his skin…the silver from the bullet mingling with his blood…his shattered hopes the most painful wound of all.

* * *

Pierre-Auguste Renoir was a well-traveled man. He had seen many strange and wondrous things. But for all his worldliness, for all his genius, he had never seen anything as frightening as William.

Anger at his friend's lies choked him. It all finally made sense…all the little mysteries about William finally revealed in one horrible truth. Pierre shuddered, remembering the icy coldness of the demon's eyes…the sharp fangs—long and deadly in his mouth—the unnatural growls rumbling in his friend's throat. William was not human.

Renoir was angry—no, furious! Furious at William, furious at himself. His friend's betrayal burned in his chest, tightening his throat, and clenching his fists at his side.

He spun away from the doorway William had disappeared through and the artist's eye caught sight of his masterpiece which only minutes before he had been proudly showing off to his friend, while talking and laughing.

A great rage rose in him. _Art should always reflect the truth!_ He snatched the painting up, and carried it to his fireplace, smashing the wooden frame against the stone mantle. _Lies! All that this is, is lies! Waste! Garbage!_

He channeled his anger into destroying his work. When he had torn the canvas to pieces, he lit a fire in the hearth, and threw the remains into the flames. He turned his back to his work—ignoring the twinge of sadness that brought a tear to his eye.

His friendship with William was no more.

* * *

_~Los Angeles~1963~_

The dark memories faded from Josef's mind as he returned to the present, but the emotions stirred within him did not vanish as quickly. He had lost Marianne—he had destroyed his only chance for true happiness and now he was alone—Marianne dead. And it was his fault.

His friend's painting was the only thing he had left of his cherished love—his only token of her, reminding him of what he once had for his keeping. And now even that was denied him—snatched away from him unexpectedly.

Heartbreak at losing Marianne a second time consumed him—he scotch glass shattered against the wall of his study as he roared his pain—his grief. Marianne had gone to her grave hating him, but how could he hate her in return? She was sun…himself shadow.

It was his foolish choices that had led him to this moment. He had no one to blame but himself—he had known becoming attached to Marianne was a mistake. He had known better than to be involved with a mortal woman. But he just hadn't been able to help it—he had fallen in love with her, and he still loved her and he would always love her...

Always.

_Finis_


	4. Concluding Summary

To my readers…

So, I need to address the status of my stories...seeing as I'm rapidly approaching the one-year mark since my last update.

I'm really, really sorry to say this, but I don't think I'll be finishing them. :( I feel just awful about that decision; no one puts more pressure on themselves to update and finish stories than the author of them. I feel terrible that I've let them sit for so long, only to return to say that they won't be finished. I hate letting you down, but I refuse to write when my heart isn't in it anymore. (Don't get me wrong, I still LOVE Moonlight, and always will...but my ML writing muse has moved to the Bahama's, and from what I can see, has decided to settle down there.)

There is another reason I am setting my stories aside, and that is my book. I want to make my living as a writer. My dream is to walk into Barnes and Noble one day and see my book sitting on the shelf. And as much as I love writing fanfiction, ultimately, it keeps me from achieving my goals with my own writing. Recently, I have come up with some new ideas for an original story, and I want to devote all of my writing energies to completing a first draft in around a year. I'm so excited about it! :D

So, for these reasons, I am retiring my stories. I've decided to post some concluding summaries for each of them, so that there could at least be a sense of closure.

I also want to say, how honoured I am to have been able to write for such a wonderful audience. I love all my readers! You guys are the best, and I treasure all the comments you've left me. Writing fic for this fandom is one of the best things that ever happened to me, because it introduced me to all you wonderful people. :)

So here is the concluding summary of what I had planned for "Moulin de la Galette." I had hoped to wrap it up with two more longish chapters…

_Moulin de la Galette: Concluding Summary_

In the present part of the story, Mick was able to track down the painting. He encounters Emilie, (Marianne, Josef's love from the past), realizes she is a vampire—he kinda befriends her, and convinces her to meet with Josef.

In the past, Josef is forgiven by Renoir—Renoir doesn't have a problem that Josef aka, "William" is a vampire, he was just angry that William lied to him. Their friendship is renewed, Josef's secret is all water under the bridge, and Renoir decides to begin again on "Moulin de la Galette". (so that is how I both destroyed the painting, and managed to have it still around in the present. :D ) Josef mopes around Renoir's studio, because Marianne refuses to see him or speak to him. He and Renoir have many conversations about vampirism, and Renoir begins to think he wants Josef to turn him. Josef refuses—he says he could never do that to his friend, that Renoir would not be suited for a life as a vampire—he loves life too much. Renoir lets the matter drop for the moment.

Later, Renoir asks Josef to fetch something from the attic for him—while Josef is up there, the floorboards give way, and he falls to the studio below, and is momentarily knocked unconscious. Renoir hurries to help him, but before Josef regains his senses, Renoir, taking advantage of Josef's unconsciousness, catches some of his blood in a vial, thinking he could use it to turn himself if Josef continued to refuse.  
Back to the present—Mick brings Josef to meet Emilie/Marianne and the two lovers see each other for the first time in the present….both of them faint. ;D

Chapter 5 opens with Josef recovering, he endures a lot of fussing from Mick, and then rushes to Marianne's side—she has yet to recover from her faint. Mick is curious how Josef could not have known that Marianne was "alive" so Josef tells him the rest of the story.

Back to the past, Renoir tells Josef he must go to Marianne—Josef follows his advice, and in desperation goes to Marianne's house and begs for her to forgive him. Marianne refuses, rejects his love, rejects him, and tells him she never wants to see him again. Josef leaves, heartbroken. :'( Marianne goes to Renoir's to seek comfort, because even though she told Josef she didn't love him, she still has feelings, and is broken hearted by her actions. All this time she has been trying to convince herself that she doesn't love "William" anymore, and has nearly succeeded. As she approaches Renoir's home, Solveig who was waiting in the shadows of the house for Josef, shoots her instead, and runs off into the night.

Renoir, hearing the shot, rushes from his studio, to find Marianne bleeding to death. She realizes she loves Josef, and begs Renoir to go find him, so she can forgive him before she dies. Renoir tells her that she can yet be with William/Josef and he offers her Josef's blood instead, sacrificing his own shot at immortality for Marianne's happiness. So Marianne is turned by Josef's blood.

Josef runs into Solveig, on the way to Renoir's. He smells Marianne's blood on her, and demands to know what happened. Solveig tells him Marianne's dead, and Josef senses that she is telling the truth (because Solveig truly believes she killed Marianne). In a rage, Josef kills Solveig. Heartbroken, he flees Montmartre, without returning to Renoir. Thus he remains unaware that Marianne is a newly turned vampire.

Back in the present, Marianne wakes, and Josef and her are reunited, and Marianne reveals that she still loves Josef. All is forgiven, and Marianne, Josef, and Renoir's painting all go home. So, a happy ending. :)


End file.
